Fading Away
by AstraInclinant010
Summary: When Harry collapses in detention, Snape begins to pay much closer attention to him and, in the process, starts to uncover some unsettling truths about Harry's home life. PoA AU. Snape/Harry mentor fic. No slash
1. Chapter 1

There was something wrong with the Potter boy.

Severus glared down at the Gryffindor table, his eyes scanning for the source of his irritation. Potter was nowhere in sight, something which Severus had come to expect over the course of the first fortnight of the autumn term. His eyes fell instead on Potter's entourage, who were conversing quietly and shooting anxious glances at the spot reserved for their third member.

It was just like Potter to cause everyone to worry, Severus griped to himself. He was probably skipping breakfast for attention, given that he'd now spent two weeks away from his adoring relatives who doted on him and pandered to his every whim.

Yes, that must be it.

He'd only agreed to keep an eye on the brat as a favour to Albus – although why the meddling old man couldn't just ask the wolf, or someone who actually _liked_ the boy, was utterly beyond him. His objections had fallen on deaf ears, and now he was stuck on what he liked to refer to as 'Potter duty'.

He hadn't been expecting it to be an easy enough job. Not when he was tasked with making sure the miscreant didn't get up to anything. But he'd been anticipating the boy would roam the castle at all hours, or go hunting for Black, or perhaps perform some equally stupid stunt in order to get more admiration and praise from his dim-witted peers. He'd even spent the three days between agreeing to Albus' ridiculous request and the brat's return eagerly plotting the detentions he'd hand out when Potter inevitably started causing trouble.

Instead, the boy had turned up pale and lifeless. At first, Severus had suspected a ploy for the pity and concern of his peers. In fact, he still thought that was the most plausible explanation for the brat's behaviour .

But he could not shake the nagging whisper in his mind… Two weeks had now passed since the students had returned to the castle, and Potter only seemed to be withdrawing into himself more.

Severus had tried to ignore him. After all, he'd only agreed to make sure the boy didn't come to any harm, not babysit the brat and discover what trifling teenage drama was wounding his pride. But the boy was an enigma; and try as he might, Severus couldn't ignore him, for there was nothing he hated more than an unsolved puzzle.

And – although he would never admit it even on pain of death – he was beginning to worry about the boy.

Severus glowered at the empty seat next to Granger once more. What was the world coming to, when he couldn't even enjoy a Potter-free meal in peace? He shook his head, and determined to forgo thinking about Potter for the rest of the meal, lest it ruin his appetite.

But alas, fortune never seemed to favour Severus, and the Potter brat shuffled into the Great Hall just as the professor had finished buttering his toast, once again forcing his attention away from his meal. He glared at the boy in disdain, noting as he did so the heavy shadows under Potter's eyes and the awkward movement with which he walked.

Maybe he was just tired from roaming the castle after curfew and causing mayhem. Perhaps Severus had missed him lurking about the previous night – perhaps because he'd used that damnable cloak. Maybe he wasn't eating because he'd snuck into the kitchen and devoured all the sweets the house elves would give him.

And maybe this year would reveal Longbottom to be a gifted Potioneer.

Severus sighed loudly, drawing the attention of Professor McGonagall, who was seated his left.

She followed his gaze, her lips thinning as she recognised the object of his scrutiny. "And what has Mr Potter done to draw your ire this time? He's been here all of two weeks, he can't have caused you much trouble yet."

Severus tactfully didn't point out that the words 'much' and 'yet' served only to prove his point. "Never underestimate Potter. You look away for one minute, and he's off fighting trolls or blowing up cauldrons or sneaking into the Forbidden Forest and causing chaos."

Minerva frowned reprovingly at him. 'He's not his father,' she reminded him. "He doesn't seek out trouble-"

"And yet, trouble always seems to find him," Severus interjected dryly.

She glared but didn't respond. Severus smirked, rewarding himself with another bite of toast. He turned to his right instead and struck up an easy conversation with Flitwick about the merits of Hector Vance's latest modifications to the Oculus Potion.

All the while, he could not help his gaze from flickering now and then back at the boy. While he'd made it through two slices of toast, Potter had merely nibbled at his own breakfast. Severus watched as he took a forkful of scrambled eggs in what was clearly an effort to appease Granger, barely bit the corner of a piece of toast, and moved the remainder of his food awkwardly around his plate. He frowned. Next to him, Minerva cleared her throat again.

"Potter looks … peaky today," she murmured, as Flitwick's attention turned several seats down to answer a query from Professor Burbage. She frowned, both of them watching now as Potter mutilated the food on his plate without consuming another mouthful. "You have him next Severus, do make sure to keep an eye on him."

"The last thing Potter needs is more attention," Severus griped, pretending that he hadn't spent the last two weeks carefully noting Potter's abnormal behaviour.

Minerva continued as though he'd never spoken. "I suspect the poor lad is worried about Black. Merlin knows how he must feel. The Minister wouldn't even let him stay in Diagon Alley after that dreadful debacle for fear he'd be attacked. The boy must be worried sick, knowing that Black's on the loose… _Not_ that he knows anything about Black's connection to his parents, of course. Minister Fudge was quite careful not to let that slip. But just knowing that there's a Death Eater on the run who's looking for him is a heavy burden for a boy his age to bear."

Severus rolled his eyes, "Yes, poor Potter indeed. It must be so hard for him to spend an extra two weeks with his doting relatives, being waited on hand and foot and having his every whim catered to, rather than a fortnight roaming around Diagon Alley and being bowed to by every insipid shopper in Britain. It must be _so_ difficult for the poor boy."

The familiar distain felt much more comfortable than this new, unsettling concern. Severus revelled in it as he glared at the back of the dark head.

He was spared Minerva's scathing retort by the ringing of the five-minute warning bell. Hundreds of feet suddenly took to the flagstones, students and teachers alike jarred from reverie and food into their usual morning scramble.

How he loathed Tuesday mornings, Severus thought bitterly as he dared a group of Hufflepuffs with his eyes to attempt to cut across his path to the door. Every year, he begged Albus to pair the Gryffindors with _anyone_ but his Slytherins. Every year, his request was cruelly denied. The headmaster maintained his sadistic insistence that the two houses would one day get along; and the foolish belief that Severus 's sanity would survive the intervening years before that magical day arrived.

The Hufflepuffs stepped out of his way, gulping. Taking a deep breath to prepare himself for the horror he faced, Severus stalked out of the hall.

* * *

As he walked through the cold, stone dungeon, Severus mulled over the conversation he'd just had with Minerva.

Maybe the problem with Potter _was_ Black. Knowing a mass-murderer was on the loose and hell-bent on murdering you would no doubt prevent any thirteen-year-old from sleeping. Even if that thirteen-year-old was Potter - who'd spent the last two years knowing that a different and even more dangerous mass-murderer longed to kill him. Perhaps fear had sapped his appetite.

Or perhaps the brat was acting out because he was not to be allowed to run wild in Diagon Alley.

The limp, Severus supposed, Potter could've got anywhere. Perhaps he'd been roughhousing in the Gryffindor common room. Perhaps he'd fallen off his broom. Perhaps he'd been creeping by Mrs Norris after hours and tripped over his own feet.

Except if that were the case, why did Potter seem to be attempting to conceal it? Potter was just like his father… and _James _Potter would never have squandered an opportunity for fussing and pampering from his doting entourage.

His miniature was just the same, Severus knew. He grimaced, feeling almost sick in memory of the towering pile of gifts left by Potter's adoring fans after the brat's escapades in his first year; or the near equally obnoxious haul that had graced his bedside after his Quidditch mishap in his second. Surely Potter wouldn't miss out on any opportunities for sympathy, especially not if he was in pain.

And yet… the very fact that he was _still _attempting to conceal the limp suggested not only that he had not told his little friends, but also that he had not yet sought the Mediwitch.

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, wondering for the thousandth time why he didn't just pass the problem off to Minerva, and let her worry about the boy. Wondering why he could not seem to silence the niggling voice in the back of his head that demanded he look into it further.

Scowling, he rounded the corner to find his snakes standing together opposite the Gryffindor students in the corridor. Most were smirking, as Malfoy mimed a swooning fit Severus had already seen at least a dozen times in the Great Hall since the arrival of the Hogwarts Express. He took note of Potter's clenched fists and Weasley's red ears, and refrained from rolling his eyes with immense difficulty.

"In. Now." He barked at the lot.

Just one lesson where the students weren't at each other's throats. That was all he wanted. Just one.

He waited for them all to file in, glad to find that even his Slytherins had fallen silent at his obvious impatience.

He swept in after them, closing the door with a bang. All thoughts of Potter were banished from his mind as he surveyed the students in front of him, who were quietly unpacking their potions kits and getting out the rolls of parchment he'd demanded on Hair-Raising Potions.

He summoned them with a flick of his wand, mentally taking points from Brown for using purple ink, and started his lecture. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Malfoy throwing puffer-fish eyes at the back of Potter's head, clearly disappointed at the boy's lack of reaction.

Severus frowned at the apathy – just for a moment. Then he purposefully turned his head away, determined to banish all thoughts of the boy from his mind, and focused on explaining the properties of ginger roots to the third-years.

* * *

Despite his vow to ignore the Potter boy, Severus couldn't help but watch him out of the corner of his eye as the lesson drew on.

He noted how the child staggered when he rose to grab fresh ingredients from the storage cupboard, having destroyed the first set. He watched Granger lean over and take the Flobberworms from his grasp, dicing them efficiently while Potter just sat there, staring into the cauldron with an indecipherable look on his face.

Not that Granger didn't _always_ pick up the slack for Potter and Weasley… but this was excessive even for her. She was keeping an eye on Potter too, Severus noticed, and her expression only seemed to grow more anxious as he listlessly stirred the potion with a vacant glaze to his eyes.

"Remember Harry, it's two anticlockwise stirs followed by thee clockwise," she whispered. "If you just stir it clockwise, then the fluxweed won't mix properly with the jobberknoll feathers and the whole potion will be destroyed."

He nodded apologetically at her, and moved his focus back to the stirring without any visible increased focus. Granger shared an anxious glance with Weasley, who leant over the steaming cauldron to whisper something to Potter. Severus could feel his own agitation boiling at what was, even for Potter, appalling lack of effort.

He paused by Longbottom's cauldron to berate him for his usual incompetence, and then moved closer to where Potter and his sidekicks were sitting, intending to admonish him for his lack of focus…

BOOM!

The noise reverberated around the classroom as Potter's cauldron exploded spectacularly, dousing the room in an acidic green substance.

Severus stalked furiously to the offending work station, assessing the room for damage as he did so.

"Mr Potter," he began in a deadly tone, the room falling silent, "Your arrogance never fails to astound me. I suppose it is too much to ask a celebrity like yourself to pay attention to your work, rather than leeching off Granger and lazing about! You have put the entire class at risk with-,"

He stopped midsentence, horror replacing disgust as he considered the green slime more closely. He had been about to sneer that the substance could hardly be considered _a _potion – let alone the Shrinking Solution he'd demanded today. But he recognised the noxious and highly flammable vapours which were seeping out of the remains of what once had been a cauldron.

Only Potter.

"Everybody out!" he yelled furiously, already setting up wards around the former cauldron in an attempt to contain the fumes. "Await me in the corridor."

"NOW!" he roared, when they failed to react immediately.

There was a sudden stampede for the door, many of the students leaving their bags behind in their haste to escape the classroom.

Severus banished the remains of the cauldron as soon as the room had cleared. He cast several air filtering spells in quick succession, which were second nature to him after more than a decade of teaching incompetent children.

By the time he had ensured the classroom was safe, the lesson period was nearly over. Even so, Severus summoned the class back in to collect their bags and, more importantly, to assign them four feet on exactly what Potter had done wrong. He ignored Malfoy's melodramatic complaint, along with the rest of the impertinent mutterings, and dismissed the lot exactly two and a half minutes early.

"Potter. Stay behind," he barked, as he saw the boy attempt to slip unnoticed out the door. "Granger, Weasley, off with you."

Potter turned with a grimace. His shadows hovered at the door. "Ten points from Gryffindor," he spat at them. "And it'll be detention too if you two don't go to your next class. Now."

Granger tugged Weasley out of the classroom reluctantly. With a flick of his wand, Severus shut the door firmly behind them. He moved behind his desk before glaring at Potter.

"Sit," he said venomously, motioning to the empty chair in front of his desk. Potter dropped into it with a gulp and stared at his hands. Severus slammed his own onto the desk's surface.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Potter," he growled, though noting Potter's flinch. "While I'm aware you hold little concern for anyone but yourself, your arrogance today remains astounding. Too lazy even to pay attention to stirring, _after_ passing off the entirety of the preparatory work to Granger. Too busy day-dreaming to have an ounce of concern for your fellow students! It's disgraceful Potter, even for you."

He glared down at the boy in front of him. The spark of defiant anger that met him was the first sign of life Severus had seen from the boy in days. He found the thought oddly comforting… not least because it fed his own familiar fury with the brat.

"Detention. Seven o'clock this evening. Now get out of my sight."

Potter wasted no time in exiting the classroom, flinging the door ajar so that it banged off the wall as he made his escape.

Severus scowled after him, all thoughts of concern for the brat finally banished as he looked around the carnage of the room. Not for the first time, he wondered what he'd done to deserve having Potter and Longbottom in the same Potions class.

Frowning again in disgust, he summoned a house-elf to clean up the remaining mess and moved swiftly of the room, desperate to indulge in some well-earned peace and quiet in his office during the next period – which, mercifully, he happened to have free.

He was in no mood for interruptions. Yet as he stalked down the corridor, the unmistakable sound of shouting students echoed from the opposite direction. He changed direction with an audible sigh, already plotting the detentions he'd hand out to whichever idiots had the audacity to hurl insults at each other rather than attend their scheduled lessons. He was already imaging the brats scrubbing cauldrons for hours on end, or better yet cleaning out the bedpans in the Hospital Wing, when he rounded the corner.

He stopped short, temporarily frozen by surprise and fury, at the sight of Potter tackling Malfoy to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry rolled over in his bed, suppressing a groan at the pain coursing through his body. The room was dark, although a small stream of light shone through the gap in the scarlet curtains, and only the gentle snores emitting from the bed next to his broke the silence of the still September morning.

It was Ron's snoring, more than his comfortable bed or the heavy velvet curtains surrounding it, that reminded Harry he was finally back at Hogwarts. He was finally home.

He slowly pushing himself into a sitting position, wincing as the dull ache in his leg changed to a sharp stabbing throb which ran up and down his leg. It had been a difficult summer; Uncle Vernon hadn't forgiven him for the incident with the Masons and that was before he'd gone and blown up Aunt Marge. Harry shivered as he remembered the look on his Uncle's face when the Minister had brought Harry back after that, the way his eyes had gleamed vindictively as he assured Fudge that he'd deal with his nephew properly. Harry breathed deeply, banishing the memory from his mind, and shuffled out of bed.

He knew he needed to go to the Hospital Wing about his leg. He was sure it was broken; it didn't seem to be healing at all, growing more painful with every day that he hobbled around the ancient stone corridors of the castle. But he couldn't let Madam Pomfrey examine him, not until his bruised and battered body had healed enough to avoid any suspicion.

Harry hobbled slowly to the shower, glad to be up before the others boys so that he could move without hiding his limp, and let the scalding hot water rain down on him, allowing the heat to consume him and drive all memories of that summer away. The bruises would fade and the cuts would heal like they always did, and then he'd be able to put that summer behind him and focus on being at Hogwarts, out of reach from his Uncle's furious rage.

Harry allowed himself a few more luxurious seconds under the water, before reaching blindly to turn the shower off, and fumbling around the side table for his glasses. He shoved them onto his face, blinking as the world veered back into focus, and changed quickly into his school robes.

He could hear the frantic ringing of Ron's alarm clock as he tied his tie loosely around his neck, careful not to aggravate the bruises that cruel hands had left behind, and emerged from the bathroom to find Ron still sprawled in bed, his pillow over his head in an attempt to block out the noise.

The other boys in the dorm ignored the piercing sound, used to Ron's inability to rise in the morning after two years of sharing a dorm. Harry waited for Dean and Seamus to head into the showers before he leant over to shake Ron's shoulder. Ron groaned and mumbled incomprehensibly into his pillow, making no move to rise from his bed.

Harry smiled fondly at his friend's sleeping form, and tried again, knowing there was only one way to wake Ron up. "Come on Ron, breakfast will be over soon!"

Ron shot out of bed with a start, pulling clothes at random from his trunk. Harry leant over to tie his shoelaces – a time-consuming task as his body protested against any movement – while Ron got hurriedly got dressed for the day ahead.

It was only when Ron emerged from the bathroom that he caught sight of the clock which hung over the heavy oak door of the boys dormitory.

"You git," Ron spluttered, "We have ages till breakfast ends."

He grabbed the pillow on his bed, clearly aiming to chuck it as Harry's head, but he was stopped in his tracks as his stomach let out an enormous rumble, reminding Ron that he hadn't eaten since the previous evening.

"Breakfast?" He said instead, all thoughts of pillow fights forgotten in favour of scrambled eggs and bacon.

Harry laughed, grinning back at his friend, and they headed down the spiral staircase to find Hermione, who was curled up on one of the overstuffed maroon sofas, reading her Arithmancy textbook with an intensity she usually reserved for the week before exams.

"Honestly Hermione, we've only been back a week." Ron said in greeting.

"Professor Vector said we shouldn't bother coming to lesson if we haven't read the first chapter of the textbook. We're starting numerology today." She said, reluctantly looking away from her book.

"Like you didn't read the first chapter within hours of buying it." Ron scoffed. He began to mock Hermione's devotion to Arithmancy but Harry swiftly interrupted.

"Breakfast?" He suggested before his friends could start bickering. Hermione nodded, cramming her textbook back into her already overstuffed bag. She slung it over one shoulder and led the way to the portrait hole, pointedly ignoring Ron.

Ron grinned, not in the least put out by her cold-shoulder, and he and Harry made their way slowly out of the common room and towards the Great Hall, their conversation dominated by the upcoming Cannons match which was to be played against the Falcons next Monday.

Harry laughed to himself at Ron's exalted hopes for his team. It was good to be home.

* * *

Harry's euphoria ended abruptly the moment they entered the Great Hall. The voices of hundreds of students chattering away as they ate was overwhelming, and the scent of sizzling bacon wafting through the air made Harry feel slightly nauseas.

It reminded him of Privet Drive, and Harry could almost feel the agonising hunger pangs he'd experienced every day when he'd been forced to cook a full breakfast for Dudley despite being fed little more than a can of soup.

He waved off Hermione's concern, and moved slowly towards the Gryffindor table, acutely aware of the pain in his leg after traipsing down several flights of stairs and half a dozen corridors to reach breakfast.

As he walked, he heard an eruption of laughter coming from the over end of the hall. Looking over, he caught sight of a crowd of Slytherins laughing viciously as Malfoy dramatically swooned. The boy in question smirked maliciously when he caught sight of Harry's attention, and mimed collapsing again, this time wiping fake tears away from his face as he did so.

Harry clenched his fists, a bust of hatred flooding his vision as his breathing sped up. In that moment, Malfoy reminded Harry so terribly of Dudley, and it was all he could do not to storm over there and make him shut up.

"Don't let him get to you," Hermione urged, reaching for a piece of toast after settling down onto the hard-wooden bench.

Ron made a noise in agreement, his mouth already crammed full with several rashers of bacon. Harry looked away, actively supressing memories of the Dursley's kitchen, and grabbed a piece of plain toast from the rack on the table.

It was almost funny. He'd spent the summer longing for food, daydreaming about the taste of treacle tart and the feeling of being pleasantly full, but now that he was back at Hogwarts the food tasted like ash in his mouth, and he barely had the appetite to stomach a single slice of toast.

"You really ought to eat more." Hermione admonished, frowning at his empty plate.

Harry shrugged carelessly.

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue with him, but was stopped by a pointed glance from Ron. Harry pretended not to see their silent exchanged, prodding at his toast with a fork. He willed the morning bell to ring, not so much out of a desire to attend Charms as much as a need to escape the repulsive odour of food and Hermione's scrutinising gaze.

* * *

The day dragged on, leaving Harry weary and tired by the time he finally collapsed into his favoured spot in the Gryffindor common room. He ached all over, and the warmth from the burning fire only forced him to struggle harder to keep his eyes open.

He glanced down at the essay he was working on, noting with a groan that he was still a foot short of the required length. His thoughts kept drifting, and he couldn't think of a single thing more to say about the Wiggenweld Potion. If it was any other professor, Harry probably would've called it a day, but he couldn't bear giving Snape another reason to take points.

Not that he needed a reason. Just the day before, Snape had taken points off Harry when Malfoy spoke to him; when he'd add added two handfuls of crushed beetles not one; and when he'd 'disturbed' the entire class by whispering to Hermione to ask for a spare quill after his snapped. It hadn't seemed to matter to Snape in the slightest that Theodore Nott's potion had turned a violent shade of red rather than the periwinkle blue it was supposed to be or that Daphne Greengrass had been giggling loudly with Tracy Davis for half the lesson.

Not that this came as much of a surprise to Harry. Snape hated him. That was a commonly accepted fact among the third years; Snape enjoyed nothing more than taking points Harry and assigning detentions and pointing out every single one of Harry's faults, real or imaginary.

"The salamander blood needs to be added _before_ the flobberworm mucus." said Hermione, peering over his shoulder at the nearly illegible scrawl on his parchment.

Harry sighed, erasing the sentence he'd just written with a flick of his wand. He was so tired. Besides, he knew that no matter what he wrote, the essay would be delivered back covered in red ink and scathing comments.

"And it turns indigo _after_ adding the knotgrass," Hermione said, pulling him away from his thoughts again.

Harry nodded again, correcting his mistake, and scrawled out a conclusion which was little more than a stream of consciousness.

Without a word, Hermione pulled his pitiful essay towards her and began altering the most obvious mistakes.

Ron looked up from his own essay and gave Harry a commiserating smile. "That bloody essay Snape's set us is a complete nightmare. I never want to see the word 'Wiggenweld' again. Honestly, I reckon I've exceeded expectations just by managing to blag my way through two feet of parchment."

Harry laughed, "I wouldn't hold your breathe. He gave me a dreadful for the summer work, and that was a couple of inches over the requirement."

"You did write it on the train." Hermione pointed out.

"So it wasn't my greatest work. He gave Goyle a P and his can't have been more than half a foot long."

"For Goyle that ought to be an outstanding," said Ron, doodling the Cannons logo on the edge of his parchment as he spoke. "I'm pretty sure he didn't learn to read until last year."

"He reminds me of my cousin," Harry admitted. "Too dim for words but what he lacks on brain cells he makes up for in size."

Ron chortled at his description, but Hermione looked up with a concerned expression on her face. "Did Dudley bother you much this summer?"

Harry looked at her questioningly, confused by the abrupt change in subject, and she continued hurriedly, "Only I saw the bruises on your arms and I just wondered…"

She trailed off as the colour drained from Harry's face. He felt his good mood vanish faster than a newly released snitch, and he struggled to keep his voice calm as he replied, "They're not a big deal. I just fell down some steps escaping him."

Hermione looked like she wanted to say more but Harry hastily continued before she could, "It's fine, really."

He stood up before she could question him further, and retreated to the dorm with a muttered 'goodnight.' He didn't look back as he left, not wanting to see Hermione's concerned gaze following him.

He collapsed on his bed, not even bothering to change out of his robes. His body ached like he'd been trampled by a stampede of hippogriffs, and his head throbbed in unison with the sharp jolt running up and down his leg.

A wave of tiredness overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes tightly, letting the exhaustion drag him down into a deep slumber.

* * *

Harry woke with a start, as he had done every night since term began. Every night his dreams were filled with memories of Uncle Vernon, red faced and shouting with his hands outstretched to wrap around the scrawny neck of his nephew. He dreamt of Aunt Marge too, her face bloated and contemptuous as she lectured Uncle Vernon about the value of discipline. He dreamt of the click of the lock after he was thrown into his room, bleeding and bruised.

Harry lay still, his heart pounding in his chest, as he reminded himself for the thousandth time that he was back at Hogwarts. He was safe now.

He extended a hand out and rooted around for his glasses, pushing them onto his nose without registering the movement. Even in the dim light of the dorm, the black and purple bruises stood out starkly against the pale skin of his arm.

Harry winced, aware that they had hardly faded in the week since Hermione had pointed them out. He knew he shouldn't be so annoyed at her. She meant well, and she could hardly be expected to realise that he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want anything to remind him of that summer.

He knew she was worried about him. He hadn't made it through a meal in the last few days without Hermione commenting on his eating habits. He'd even taken to skipping lunch, using the excuse of working on essays, just to avoid her piling more food he didn't want to eat onto his plate. It tastes like ashes and dust, and he could never stomach more than a couple of mouthfuls.

But he was fine. He'd gone more than a week without any food at all at the Dursleys, and that hadn't done him any harm.

Harry yawned, the feeling of exhaustion seeping down to his bones, and pushed himself out of bed.

Despite his fatigue, he wished he had Quidditch practise that morning. The only time he felt at peace anymore was on his broom, when he could soar through the open sky, any other thoughts insignificant to his desire to catch the snitch.

But there was no Quidditch practise on a Tuesday, and so Harry worked on his Herbology homework in the common room until Ron appeared, rubbing his eyes blearily as they adjusted to the sunlight streaming through the windows of the tower.

"Go to breakfast," said Harry, "I'll go get dressed now and meet you there."

Ron protested for a moment but in the end his hunger won out. He waited until Hermione emerged from the girls' dorms, and the two left for the Great Hall.

Harry stuffed his essay into his bag, and made his way back up to his dorm. He got dressed slowly, for he wanted to spend as little time as possible at breakfast. He couldn't skip it entirely; Hermione would worry if he did and probably drag him to the next meal, but he wasn't willing to rush down and be stuck breathing in the putrid smell of fried bacon for any longer than strictly necessary.

He walked wearily into the Hall, blankly ignoring Malfoy (whose bandaged arm didn't prevent him from dramatically swooning whenever Harry came near) in favour of collapsing onto the bench next to Ron.

He grabbed a piece of toast, and listened with amusement as Ron commiserated over the results of the Cannons match against Falcons.

"If only Arnold Horton wasn't such a lousy keeper, the Cannons might finally have a chance," said Ron, waving his hands around to articulate his point. "Galvin Gudgeon's a decent seeker, though he's got nothing on Jason Fairchild, and the Bledgemore brothers are cracking beaters. If they just replace Horton, they might have a chance of beating Pride of Portree next week."

Harry nodded enthusiastically, not bothering to point out that the Cannons' chasers had scored more than three thousand points less than Pride of Portee so far that season.

Hermione rolled her eyes at their conversation. She piled a couple of spoonfuls of scrambled eggs onto Harry's plate, and glared at him until he begrudgingly consumed a forkful in an effort to appease her. Satisfied, she turned back to her own food, before leaning to her left to answer Dean's question about the Ancient Runes work they'd been set the previous day.

Ron grinned at Harry, mouthing the words 'barking mad' as they listened to Hermione clarify the task Professor Babbling had set.

"I'm so glad we're taking Divination," Ron murmured to Harry, "I'd hate to actually have to do any work."

"Although it would be nice if we could go a single lesson without Trelawney seeing the grim in my teacup. We've only been taking Divination for a fortnight and I'm already sick of hearing about the tragic events I scheduled to experience."

"At least it makes reading your tea leaves easy. The rest of us actually have to put effort into making something up."

Harry's laughter was drowned out by the clanging of the warning bell and the subsequent stampede of feet pattering against stone as the students made their way to their classrooms.

Harry could feel his sense of humour evaporating as he neared the potions classroom, a sentiment shared by Ron, and they exchanged a grimace as they stood outside the door waiting for Snape to arrive.

* * *

Snape was watching him. Harry could almost feel the heat of Snape's glare where his dark eyes bore into the back of his head.

Harry was too tired to glare back. He was fed up with Snape's snide comments and unreasonable hatred which reminded Harry so much of the Dursleys. He ignored Snape, and settled instead for cutting up the flobberworms, viciously imagining Snape's face as he brought the knife down.

"Harry, you're destroying the flobberworms. They're supposed to be diced not crushed." Hermione lectured, waiting for his knife to stop falling before pulling the mangled mess away from him.

Harry apologised quickly, and trudged to the storage cupboard to collect a new set of supplies, his injured leg protesting every step. He allowed himself to wince once he was alone in the privacy of the cupboard, shifting all his weight onto his left leg in an attempt to alleviate the pain. It didn't help much, and Harry let out a small groan as he forced himself onto his tiptoes to grab the necessary ingredients.

He offered an apologetic smile to Ron – who'd be left working with Neville after Harry and Hermione paired up – as he made his way back to his workstation.

"Here, let me," Hermione reached over as he sat down, and began quickly and expertly dicing the flobberworms, "You can stir the cauldron instead."

Harry smiled wearily at her, too tired to argue over her babying him, and began to stir the cauldron, his mind wandering freely as he did so.

He could hear Malfoy cackling to Nott, and Harry knew they were talking about him. He clenched his fist around the stirrer and slowly turned around, just in time to see Malfoy swoon dramatically next to the cauldron. His arm was still bound in that ridiculous sling, and Harry felt a wave of anger take over him as he recalled Hagrid's tear-covered face at the threats made against Buckbeak.

"Remember Harry, it's two anticlockwise stirs followed by three clockwise ones. If you just stir it clockwise then the fluxweed won't mix properly with the jobberknoll feathers and the whole potion will be destroyed." Hermione interrupted worriedly, whether about Harry or the potion he couldn't tell.

Harry nodded, muttering an apology as he sought to correct his stirring habit. He purposefully ignored Malfoy, desperate not to give him the satisfaction of upsetting him.

Ron leant over towards Harry. "Careful of Malfoy. He keeps staring at you."

Harry didn't have a chance to respond, for just as Ron finished speaking he saw something fly through the air and land with a small splash in his cauldron. He could hear Malfoy laughing. The world seemed to slow down. Harry desperately pushed Ron away. Ron fell back, just in time for Harry's cauldron exploded spectacularly, dousing the room in an acidic green substance and leaving scorch marks where Ron's head had been mere moments before.

Snape stalked over to where Harry was sitting, eyes burning with fury as he glared venomously. Harry forced himself not to cower, meeting the man's eyes defiantly.

The smell of burning metal filled the air, and noxious vapours began to seep out of the ruins of his cauldron. Harry thought he recognised a glint of panic in Snape's eyes as he banished the students from the room, muttering spell after spell as he did so.

"Nice going, Potter." Malfoy said as they waited outside the classroom. "You can't even brew a Shrinking Solution, a second-year potion, correctly. I suppose that's what happens when you're raised by muggles."

"I know you threw something into my potion," Harry snarled. He could feel his tiredness ebb away as his temper rose. His vision seemed to be tinted with red and any second now he knew he was going to explode and-

The door of the potions classroom banged open. In the commotion of everyone moving back inside, no one noticed Harry hastily stowing his wand back into the pocket of his robes, or Hermione pulling at his elbow and begging him in whispered pleas to calm down.

He took several deep breaths as he moved slowly into the classroom, trying not to draw attention to himself. He stuffed his books carelessly into his bag, and sidled towards the door as Snape set the class yet another long essay. All he had to do now was leave without being seen.

"Potter. Stay behind." Snape barked.

Harry groaned audibly, not bothering to stifle the noise. The last thing he wanted right now was another lecture from Snape, especially when he hadn't even been the cause of the explosion. Hermione hovered by the door, glancing anxiously at Harry as though willing him not to lose his temper.

Not that he was going to. The surge of anger had vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving him tired and listless. He hardly even noticed the door of the classroom banging shut, and obeyed Snape's summons to stand before his desk without truly comprehending the order.

He all but collapsed onto the stool in front of Snape's desk, desperate to take the weight off his leg. He looked up, only to see a look of uncontained fury on his face. The professor's mouth was twisted in disdain and his sallow cheeks pinched as he glared down in disgust at his pupil. Harry stared at the ground, ignoring Snape's lecture in favour of counting the cracks on the craggy stone tiles.

The injustice of the situation stung.

He didn't have the energy to respond, so he settled for glaring venomously at Snape. He was already dreading detention that evening. All he wanted to do was curl up by the warm fires of the Gryffindor common room and play chess with Ron or listen to Hermione explain the intricacies of Arithmancy (which was rapidly becoming her favourite subject) or watch the twins vandalise Percy's head-boy badge. He didn't want to be stuck in the gloomy dungeons, writing lines or scrubbing cauldrons or preparing some revolting ingredients.

He didn't bother to respond to Snape, he just turned and fled the classroom the minute he was dismissed. He hobbled through the dungeons, shuddering at the thought of the four staircases he'd have to climb to reach Binns' classroom, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sound of Malfoy laughing.

He turned the corner to find Malfoy standing in the hallway, smirking superiorly at Nott with a cruel glint in his eye. Malfoy registered Harry's presence, but continued his conversation without a care in the world.

"It's so pathetic really. I only have one arm since that beast attacked me, and I'm still capable of brewing a better potion than Potter. It must be so difficult being so hopeless, but I guess that's what happens when you have a mudblood for a mother."

Hatred surged through his, setting every fibre of his being alight with a vicious fire of rage. "Don't you say a word about my mother, you sodding bastard or I'll-"

"Careful, Potter. If you get too upset, you might just collapse again." He smirked maliciously, "It's dangerous to faint from fear, especially with a mass-murderer hunting you. I suppose that's why you haven't bothered to go looking for him. But I suppose you're too scared to do anything more than cry at night with those pathetic muggles you call family. I know if it was me, I'd go after Black. Even if I was just avenging a good for nothing mudblood and a blood traitor who-"

Harry never let Malfoy finish his sentence. He launched himself at the blond-haired boy, wanting nothing more in that moment that to knock the teeth out of the arrogant prat. He knocked Malfoy to the ground, his fist connecting squarely with the boy's jaw. He landed another blow, catching his grey eye, before Malfoy managed to fight back. Harry heard the crunch as something connected with his nose, and he could feel warm blood trickling down his face. He didn't let that stop him from his frenzied attack, and raised his fist again.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here," Snape's roared. He grabbed Harry by the scruff of his neck, and Harry flinched away, bringing his hands up to protect him face.

Snape ignored this, keeping one hand firmly clasped on Harry's shoulder as though to restrain him. "Malfoy, go to my office now. I will deal with you shortly."

Malfoy walked away quickly, glowering at Harry with a look that promised vengeance as he rounded the corner. Nott had vanished at some point, Harry noted as he waited for Snape to start speaking. The professor stayed silent until Malfoy was out of view before he round on Harry.

"Mr Potter, you just attacked a fellow classmate, did you not?" His silky voice was low and dangerous, and Harry fought not to cringe away.

"He started it-," Harry began furiously, but he was cut off as Snape stepped forwards, looming over him menacingly.

"Do not lie to me, Mr Potter," He hissed, "You attacked him."

"He provoked me."

"There are always excuses with you, Potter. How like your father you are, he too was unwilling to take responsibility no matter how hazardous his actions proved to be."

"Don't talk about-"

"-Do not interrupt me, Potter." He snarled. His dark eyes darted down the corridor towards his office, and he smoothed his face into a neutral scowl, though the fury in his eyes didn't diminish in the slightest. "We'll discuss this incident further during your detention this evening. Rest assured Potter, you will be punished for your actions. Now go to class, and don't cause any more trouble."

Harry collapsed against the wall, pinching his broken nose in an attempt to stem the bleeding, and put his head on his knees.

He was so dead.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry stood outside Snape's office, hand shaking. He'd reached to knock on three separate occasions, but each time he'd dropped his fist as suddenly as he'd raised it, feeling a bubble of fear rising inside of him.

He breathed deeply, willing himself to forget the look of fury in Snape's eyes that morning, as he'd forced Harry and Malfoy apart.

Harry couldn't help but shiver, the memory of Snape's wrath merging with the look of ferocious rage on Uncle Vernon's face the night the Minister had returned Harry back to Privet Drive. Running a hand desperately through his hair, he tried to get rid of the shadow of Uncle Vernon which seemed to be hovering over him like a dark cloud. He could almost feel the hands wrapped around his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter until Harry started seeing black spots floating before his eyes.

He shivered again, admonishing himself as he did so. He was at Hogwarts. Uncle Vernon couldn't reach him here. And for all his threats, there was nothing that Snape could do bar giving him detentions and making his life miserable during potions. He was at Hogwarts, Harry reminded himself. He was safe.

He raised his hand to knock again, but the creaking door told Harry there was no longer any need.

Lifting his head, he stared up into the dark tunnels of Snape's eyes, feeling small and vulnerable as the Potions Master glared down at him.

"Ten minutes past the hour, Mr. Potter," he said in an icy voice, "I do believe you're late."

Harry remained silent.

"Although I suppose it's also possible you arrived here precisely on the hour, and spent the last ten minutes trying to work up that famed Gryffindor courage to knock on the door," Snape sneered at him contemptuously, and beckoned for Harry to enter his office.

* * *

Harry sat on the stool in front of Snape's desk, his eyes lowered to the ground.

"Mr. Potter," Harry glanced up, taking in the scornful expression on Snape's face, his mouth twisted as though he could smell something foul, "Do you have anything to say for your despicable behaviour earlier today?"

Harry opened his mouth, about to blame Malfoy for everything, but paused, letting his mouth snap shut. Snape wouldn't believe him, and he wouldn't care even if he did. A wave of tiredness coursed through Harry, antipathy replacing the righteous anger and indignation he'd felt earlier. Staring down his hands, he shook his head.

"A verbal answer, if you please," sneered Snape.

"No sir," Harry said listlessly, too tired even to be annoyed. He just wanted to get the evening over with. He waited for Snape to start yelling at him, to list off each and everyone one of Harry's flaws and threatened him with expulsion.

Instead, Snape sat there, staring at Harry like he was a potions ingredient waiting to be dissected.

Finally he spoke, his voice deceptively soft, "No?" Snape questioned. "The famous Harry Potter has nothing to say after he attacked, and injured, a fellow classmate."

Harry remained silent, suddenly unwilling to look Snape in the eye. Instead he stared around the office, his eyes falling on a small glass jar filled with floating eyeballs, which was nestled between several larger jars filled with bubotuber pus. Glancing further along the shelves, Harry tried to identify the next vial, which was filled with a bubbling purple liquid and let out dark puffs of smoke every few seconds.

Harry kept his eyes fixed on the ingredients, aware that Snape was staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate. But Harry couldn't. He knew he shouldn't have hit Malfoy. He knew he should've ignored his schoolyard torments and walked away, scrubbed cauldrons for Snape that evening and let that be the end of the matter. But in that moment, Malfoy had reminded him so much of Dudley and Aunt Petunia, with his obnoxious manner and scathing comments about Harry's parents, and Harry had snapped.

Pushing his thoughts away, Harry continued to observe the purple vial, aware that Snape's ire was rising with every second that passed.

Finally Snape broke the silence, his icy voice so quiet Harry had to strain to hear it, "Look at me when I'm speaking to you, Potter. And answer my question."

Harry raised his eyes reluctantly to meet Snape's dour gaze, "I lost my temper," Harry admitted feebly.

"You lost your temper," Snape repeated back to him derisively, "Tell me Potter, how old are you?"

"Thirteen," Harry said, and then caught sight of the look on Snape's face, "Sir."

"And yet you have so little control over yourself, you had to resort to physical violence like a five year old," Snape shook his head in disdain, his lank hair waving as he did so. "You might be labouring under the delusion that your celebrity status will save you from the consequences of your actions, but let me assure you it doesn't matter how many times your picture appears in the papers or how many letters you get from your adoring fans, you will not get away with attacking other students. Not now, not ever." Snape was snarling by the end of diatribe.

Snape leant back in his chair, and Harry watched him wearily.

"I will be discussing this matter with your head of house," Snape continued silkily, "But know this Potter, I will not tolerate any more disobedience or disrespect from you this year. Is that clear?"

Harry nodded, and Snape's eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Yes, sir," Harry added quickly.

Snape's severe expression relaxed just a fraction. "Detention, Potter. Every day for the rest of this month. And that's in addition to whatever punishment Professor McGonagall hands out."

Harry grimaced, clenching his fist against his side. Wood was going to kill him. At least he wasn't banned from the match, he supposed dully, and half their practise sessions were in the morning anyway.

Forcing his attention away from quidditch, Harry suppressed a groan as he realised Snape was still lecturing at him, spittle flying from his mouth as he criticised Harry's character and work ethic.

"-Especially given your utterly appalling performance in potions this morning," Snape finished, glowering down his hooked-nose at the boy in front of him.

Harry tried to look contrite, not wanting to risk any further detentions by explaining how Malfoy had flung something into his cauldron. Snape wouldn't believe him anyway, Harry thought bitterly. He'd just accuse Harry of trying to blame someone else, the way he had that morning when Harry had tried to explain what Malfoy had said to provoke him.

Harry suppressed a sigh, looking down at the ground. He was tired. His body ached all over, and the hard stool he was currently sat on did nothing to help that. All he wanted to do was settle back into one of the armchairs by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, and listen to Hermione squabble with Ron over his study habits. But instead he was stuck sitting on a hard stool in the draughty potions classroom, waiting for Snape to give him some menial, time-consuming, no doubt disgusting task that would take the entire evening to complete.

He looked back up to find Snape staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. When Snape caught him looking, his face snapped back into its normal sneer.

"You'll be cleaning cauldrons this evening," Snape announced, motioning to the large stack of cauldrons piled up next to the sink.

Harry stifled a groan. There had to be at least twenty cauldrons, all covered in some sticky grey substance that didn't look like it had any intention of coming off the cauldrons easily. This was going to take him all evening. Doing his best to hide a wince as he got up from the stool, Harry made his way over to the sink and grabbed a scrubbing brush. Settling himself down with a wince, he reached for the first cauldron.

* * *

Harry glanced up from the final cauldron, eyes fixed on the clock which hung over the Potion Master's desk.

It was already twenty past ten. Harry stifled a yawn as his thought turned to the mountain of prep which lay waiting for him out on table in the Gryffindor common room. Harry just wanted to go to bed.

He'd slept poorly the previous night, his slumber repeatedly interrupted by sharp jolts of pain running up and down his right leg. Harry rubbed at it subconsciously. He was beginning to worry that it wasn't healing properly, for the pain only seemed to be getting worse, even as the rest of his body finally started to recover. The bruises which covered his arms and torso had turned yellow and green, and Harry reckoned they'd be gone within another week or two.

The light in the potions classrooms were dim, enough so that Harry was comfortable rolling up his sleeves while he worked, the shadows of the classroom masking the yellowing bruises on his arms. Indeed, the only light source other than the torches on the walls came from the ball of light Snape had created to hover over his desk, illuminating the essays he was currently marking. As if sensing Harry's gaze, Snape looked up from the essay he was marking, which was covered in red ink and scathing comments.

"I've finished sir," Harry said, staggering to his feet as his body complained rather vigorously at being forced into the same position for hours. Shaking out his arms, he neatly stacked the final cauldron up against sink, and stood in front of Snape's desk, waiting to be dismissed.

"Very well, Potter. You're dismissed-," Snape cut off suddenly, his eyes searching Harry's face intently, "Potter, is there any reason you're walking around with a broken nose?"

His question caught Harry off guard. Harry had completely forgotten it was there, and no one had pointed it out, for he'd avoided his friends during the day, and the dimly lit dungeon had hidden it from view entirely. It was only now, standing under the bright orb of light which hovered over Snape's desk, that his bruised face could be easily seen.

Tentatively, Harry poked at his nose, wincing as it twinged in protest. He thought he saw a flicker of surprise on Snape's face, but it was gone so quickly Harry was sure he must have imagined it.

"I suppose you think it's something to brag about to your legion of admirers," Snape sneered scornfully, "The war wounds of the heroic boy who lived. How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter. He too paraded any and all injuries around, unwilling to let them be healed until he'd shown them off to anyone who'd take a moments notice. You might think you look brave or strong, but you're deluded if you think you look like anything more than an arrogant child who considers rules to be beneath him." Snape paused for breath, his lip curling in disdain. "Go to the Hospital Wing first thing tomorrow, I won't have you in my classroom sporting a broken nose like a badge of honour."

Harry had no chance to defend himself, for Snape opened the door with a flick of his wand and dismissed Harry, reminding him only to return the next day at seven o'clock sharp.

* * *

Severus sat in his office after the brat had gone, mulling over the events of the day. Minerva was right, he was forced to admit (if only to himself), there was definitely something wrong with Potter.

Potter had seemed so lifeless, lacking the normal snide and arrogant remarks and Gryffindor bravado which Severus had come to expect from him. Normally, Severus would have said Potter was just subdued at being in detention, missing out on causing mayhem in the common room to scrub cauldrons in the presence of his hated professor. But Potter had seemed so weary, his eyes empty and dull as he stared at the potions professor.

Potter hadn't even defended his fight with Malfoy, when Severus knew perfectly well Potter had been provoked (he'd given Malfoy a fortnights worth of detention with Filch for roughhousing with a Gryffindor in the corridors), nor had the brat risen to his provocative comments about his broken nose. Come to think of it, Potter hadn't even seemed to notice his nose, which must have hurt like hell if the swelling was any indication.

The boy had flinched too, Severus recalled, when he'd banged his hand against the desk in the anger that morning. It hadn't been much, not enough for most people to have caught, but Severus had noticed, even if he'd ignored it at the time.

Frowning to himself, Severus silently cursed Potter for not being predictable. It was just like the brat to make everyone worry, he groused, aware that his heart wasn't really in it.

The solution hit him suddenly, like the nightbus skidding to a halt for an outstretched wand. He'd simply ask Poppy tomorrow. If Potter's trouble sleeping and failure to consume food were part of some greater problem, Poppy would catch it when the boy went to get his nose fixed the next day.

Content that he'd found a solution to his problem, Severus reached for the next essay on the pile and settled in to finish his marking.

* * *

Harry wondered through the dungeon and back towards the safety of the common room, mulling over the events of his detention.

He knew he ought to go to Madam Pomfrey and get his nose fixed, before anyone else noticed it. And Hermione would surely drag him there anyway tomorrow – she probably would've today if he hadn't hidden out of sight in the dorms during lunch and retreated to the library after lessons had finished.

For a brief few moments, Harry considered obeying Snape and going to the Hospital Wing the next morning. But he cast that thought aside in dismay, for he knew that Madam Pomfrey would notice his limp within seconds, or she'd see the bruises on his arms and around his throat and she'd start asking question which Harry really didn't want to answer.

Harry wasn't entirely sure why he was so adamant that no one knew about his summer, but the thought of it made him feel sick and shivery and wrong. It was embarrassing too, to have everyone know his relatives didn't like him much and knocked him around when he messed up on the cooking or the gardening or looked at Vernon the wrong way.

Harry frowned, trying desperately to think of a solution to the problem at hand. He needed someone to fix his nose, who wouldn't ask any questions or notice anything amiss.

Suddenly it hit him. He could ask Oliver Wood. Harry remembered how at practise a few days ago, George had managed to hit Oliver square in the face with a bludger. And Oliver had just pulled out his wand, muttered some sort of spell (it began with an e … epeskoy … no episkey, that was it) and his nose had healed good at new. Oliver hadn't even had to pause practice for a moment, which Fred muttered to George afterwards was probably why he'd bothered to learn the spell at all. It was a running joke in the Gryffindor quidditch team that Oliver never bothered to learn new spells outside of the curriculum unless they helped him with quidditch.

Smiling to himself, Harry muttered the password – 'fortuna major' – to the portrait of the Fat Lady, and entered the common room with a spring in his step. Tomorrow, after their early morning quidditch practice, he'd get Oliver to fix his nose. With his nose healed, and his bruises rapidly fading, no one would suspect a thing about his summer. He wouldn't have to risk Madam Pomfrey noticing something amiss, and as long as his nose was fixed before potions, Snape would be none the wiser.

He could feel a weight lifting off his shoulders, and for the first time that day, Harry felt relaxed. Content that he'd found a solution to his problem, Harry ignored the pile of work he'd left out on the table, and instead made his way up the spiral staircase and into his dorm, settling down onto his bed with a sigh of relief.


	4. Chapter 4

Severus sipped at his coffee, black and bitter the way he liked it, and watched the goings on at the house tables. His eyes fell on Malfoy, arm still bound in a ridiculous sling, and he suppressed a scowl. Poppy had personally assured both him and Lucius that there nothing wrong with Draco's arm mere minutes after she'd healed the cut with a wave of her wand. Yet here they were, two weeks later, and the ridiculous boy still had it wrapped in bandages every morning.

Severus rolled his eyes and continued to scan his house table, paying particular attention to the first years. He couldn't help but feel smug when he compared the polite and well-mannered students at his table to Minerva's house, where the ruffians were shouting and rough-housing as they wolfed down their food. His eyes fell on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who for some reason appeared to have decided to eat breakfast without even showering first and now sat covered in mud and dripping water onto the flagstone floor. The red-haired menaces were making a particular racket, re-enacting some moment from their practice and waving their hands around like buffoons to articulate their point.

Beside the twins sat the youngest member of the team, who was sitting there, nose fully healed and eyes more animated than they had been in weeks, chattering away with Granger and Weasley.

The boy was even eating, Severus noted with a feeling akin to relief. He wondered briefly if Poppy had said something to him about his eating habits. He certainly wouldn't put it past her to threaten to ban the boy from Quidditch for medical reasons if she thought he wasn't eating properly.

He glanced along the staff table, noticing with surprise that Poppy wasn't occupying her normal seat. Shrugging the thought off, he made a mental note to ask her about Potter later, and reached to refill his coffee.

"Potter looks brighter," Minerva commented. Severus recognised the same hint of relief in her eyes.

He inclined his head in agreement, still maintaining an air of indifference to the whole situation.

"I've assigned him and Malfoy detention with Mr Filch all day during the Hogsmeade weekend next month. I can hardly assign him more evening detentions, given he's with you every night for the next four weeks, and this way both of them will be forced to watch their classmates go off and have fun while they have to complete whatever menial task Mr Filch has planned for them," she said.

Severus nodded in approval, though he wondered briefly whether he ought to advise her to keep the two boys apart. Then again, he supposed that was the whole point: to make Potter and Malfoy co-exist peacefully when trapped in a room together. He scoffed to himself. It was more likely that Longbottom would win Potions Weekly's prestigious Potioneer of the Year award than that Potter and Malfoy could get on for an afternoon.

Nevertheless, he declined to make any further comment. Mainly because he wouldn't have to be the one forced to supervise that debacle. Taking another sip of coffee, he banished all thoughts of Potter from his mind and finished his breakfast in peace

* * *

"How was practice?" Hermione asked as Harry dropped down into the seat beside her, soaking wet and covered from head to toe in mud.

"I swear Wood's trying to kill us," Harry grumbled, allowing Hermione to pile food onto his plate without complaint. "He had us practising sloth rolls, which are tricky enough when it isn't pouring with rain. I think I spent longer on the ground than I did on my broom."

He'd landed on his injured leg one time, and the resulting shooting pains which ran from his toes all the way up to his thigh had been agonising. Harry had sat there shell-shocked and unable to move, and it was only Katie's concerned offer to take him to the Hospital Wing that forced him back onto his broom.

He didn't tell Hermione any of this, but instead let her sigh and mutter 'boys' reprovingly before asking, "Anything exciting happen while I was gone?"

"You mean besides Hermione reading out the final paragraph from her essay on Switching Spells a dozen times, just to check it made sense?" Ron replied, stuffing another rasher of bacon into his mouth.

Hermione glowered at him. Ron was now hunched over, frantically scribbling down a conclusion to his own essay and using his other hand to mechanically shovel eggs into his mouth with a spoon. "You might find it useful too, if you ever actually finished an essay ahead of time."

Harry grinned at them and leant back, the sound of their squabbling lightening his mood. He felt like the weight of the world had been lifted temporarily from his shoulders, for flying always gave him a sense of peace and freedom. Even better, Wood had accepted that Harry didn't want to go to Pomfrey and risk a detention for fighting in the corridors, and healed his nose without asking any questions.

Even so, Harry picked at his breakfast. His appetite had not returned despite his good mood.

"You in, Harry?" Ron asked, snapping him back to reality.

"Yeah sure," Harry said, and then added as an afterthought, "For what?"

"Quidditch this evening. Dean and Seamus have agreed to play us two on two, and I bet we could get some of the Ravenclaws to join in a pick-up game."

Harry nodded enthusiastically, and then groaned. "I've got detention with Snape this evening. And I bet he'll keep me till right before curfew again."

Ron glared up at the head table, muttering under his breath about the greasy git, while Hermione turned to Harry and asked, "For blowing up your potion yesterday?"

"I uh … kind of … hit Malfoy," Harry admitted quietly, preparing himself for Hermione's exclamation of horror.

"The prat deserved it," Ron said, leaping to Harry's defence before Hermione had a chance to speak, "Didn't you see him chucking that thing into Harry's cauldron yesterday?"

"That thing was shrivelfig, which you'd know if you ever did the reading Snape assigns," Hermione lectured imperiously, before turning her attention back to Harry. "What were you thinking?"

'I lost my temper. It's not like I just walked up to Malfoy and attacked him,' Harry said defensively. He scowled bitterly, "Although it might as well be for Snape."

"The greasy git caught you punching Malfoy and you're still alive to tell the tale?" Ron exclaimed, "Did you hex him?"

"I'm barely still alive. The lousy bat gave me detention every night for the rest of the month." Harry grinned at the look of indignation on Ron's face, feeling a burst of warmth for his best friend, who began rather vigorously listing off everything he hated about Snape.

Hermione rolled her eyes at the pair of them, listening to Ron's animated rant for a couple of minutes before saying to Harry, "You'd better go and shower now, if you're planning to do so before Charms."

Harry glanced at his watch, surprised to find they only had fifteen minutes left till lessons began. He rose quickly, turning slightly away so as to hide the look of pain that crossed his face. His leg was on fire after his Quidditch practice, and he worried that he wouldn't even make it to Gryffindor tower, let alone around the castle for the rest of the day.

Doing his best to hide his limp, he grinned goodbye to his friends, promised to meet them at charms, and slowly made his way back to the common room.

* * *

Severus climbed the spiral staircase and knock three times in quick succession on the door. A summons from Dumbledore had landed on his desk as the bell rang to end his first class of the day, inviting him to meet at his earliest convenience. He scowled to himself, knowing that Dumbledore had deliberately sent a letter right before the beginning of his free period to deny him any opportunity to delay their meeting.

Inclining his head respectfully at the headmaster, Severus settled himself down in the too-comfy armchair in front of Albus' desk, purposefully ignoring the portraits of former headmistresses and headmasters who peered out at him from the walls.

"You asked to see me?" he said, cutting straight to the point without bothering with pleasantries.

Albus smiled at him, his blue eyes twinkling, before his expression turned grave. "Poppy had to take an unexpected leave of absence earlier this morning," he said. "St. Mungo's has agreed to send a temporary nurse, but she won't arrive until Monday."

"I fail to see how this involves me," said Severus icily. But his heart sank. He knew exactly where Dumbledore was going.

"Severus, my dear boy, I have thoroughly exhausted every other resource. Believe me, I would not ask this of you were there any other choice."

Severus restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Just barely. How many possible resources could Albus have exhausted, in less than an hour? He scowled resentfully, for the first time regretting that a qualification in healing was required to become a Potions Master.

"Please, Severus," Albus begged, turning the full force of his twinkling blue eyes on him, "All I'm asking is for you to manage to the Hospital Wing for the next three days. You're the only member of staff qualified to take on the roll. You can do your marking in Poppy's office, and there's a chance you won't even be disturbed."

Severus grimaced, trying to think of a single good reason to refuse, though he knew his protests would be futile and that his agreement was merely a formality. Still, that did not mean he had to like it.

He glared begrudgingly at Albus. "Fine. What exactly does this job require from me?"

He didn't bother to hide his displeasure as leant back slightly in his chair, listening attentively as Albus started running through exactly what he'd need to do for the next three days.

* * *

Harry limped slowly through the grounds, glad that Ron and Hermione were too busy to join him. It was agonising forcing himself to walk normally in their company.

It had become clear over the past week that his leg wasn't going to heal on its own, but Harry had already carefully devised a plan. He'd wait another two or three weeks, until his bruises had completely healed. Then he'd go to Madam Pomfrey and claim to have fallen off his broom. Provided there was nothing else obviously wrong with him, he was sure she wouldn't look further into it than that.

Nodding to himself, Harry approached the small wooden hut at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. He smiled at the sight of smoke wafting out of the chimney.

He didn't need to knock on the door, for he was greeted by booming barks from Fang, who leapt up as he entered the room and slobbered all over Harry's face. Harry grinned, pushing the dog's face away from his and patting his head instead.

"Harry," roared Hagrid in delight, "Why, I haven't seen yeh outside o' class since last summer. How've yeh been?"

Harry smiled openly and settled down at the table. He petted Fang's head as he chattered away to Hagrid, complaining about the workload and Quidditch practice and assuring him that he really did enjoy Care of Magical Creatures, even if all they did was feed flobberworms.

"It's definitely my favourite elective," Harry promised Hagrid, neglecting to mention that the only other contender was Divination, where Trelawney predicted his tragic future every lesson, complete with warnings about the Grim. "Probably my favourite subject as well, though I like Defence too. Lupin's definitely the best professor we've had, and we had an absolutely wicked lesson the other week about Boggarts." Harry laughed as he told Hagrid the tale of boggart-Snape staggering out of the cupboard wearing a hat adorned with a stuff vulture.

"I 'eard all about that in the staffroom. Professor Snape was furious. 'Course, Snape and Lupin have a history. They always used ter be at each other's throats."

"Really?" asked Harry in surprise. He couldn't imagine mild-mannered Professor Lupin being at anyone's throat, even Snape.

"Well o' course. Lupin an' yer Father-," he cut himself off suddenly. "I shouldn't have said that. Forget I said anything"

Harry was about to press further, wanting desperately to find out how Professor Lupin had known his father. He knew Hagrid would cave and tell him the full story if he kept asking, and he had just opened his mouth to do so when he caught sight of the clock that hung over the mantelpiece of the clock.

He swore loudly, and frantically scrambled to pack up his bag. "Sorry Hagrid! I have to run. I've got detention with Snape in ten minutes."

Hagrid nodded sympathetically and stood to open the door for him, pulling Fang back when he jumped up to lick Harry goodbye.

"Bye," Harry called as he raced out the door, "I'll try come by again this weekend."

Harry didn't hear Hagrid's response, for he was already racing up the path back to Hogwarts, his leg erupting in fire at every step.

* * *

Harry skidded to a halt outside of Snape's office, panting. His leg was agonising, and he pressed his eyes shut to stop the tears from leaking out, trying to focus his mind on anything else. He took a few moments to breathe deeply and compose himself, before finally lifting his hand to knock on the door.

As he did so, his stomach grumbled loudly. It occurred to Harry that he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, having skipped lunch in favour of working on the Transfiguration essay he'd neglected to do the previous evening. He'd meant to eat dinner after visiting Hagrid, but he'd lost track of time while chattering away in the comfort of the warm hut. Hagrid had served him food, of course, but Harry had been surreptitiously slipping the rock cakes into his pockets for the duration of his visit, knowing that even a single bite could risk breaking a tooth but unwilling to hurt Hagrid's feelings by ignoring them entirely.

Hoping he'd find an old chocolate frog hidden somewhere in his trunk later that evening, he pushed thoughts of his stomach away and entered the classroom.

Snape glowered at him, clearly in a foul mood. Without a word, he gestured for Harry to get to work disembowelling the barrel of horned toads which had been set up at the workstation closest to his desk.

Harry did so, relieved he didn't have to sit through another lecture from Snape.

He worked away quietly and diligently, more than hour passing without any noise bar the scratching of Snape's quill and the thud of Harry's knife hitting the chopping board. Just as it seemed the evening might pass without incident, Harry accidentally knocked his sharp silver knife off the table while reaching for another horned toad. He bent to pick it up.

Suddenly, Harry was struck by a powerful wave of dizziness. He grabbed desperately at the side of the desk to stop himself from falling, but failed, his glasses falling off as he staggered to the ground with a groan. He fumbled awkwardly for them, another groan emitting from his lips as he shoved them back onto his face and found his sight still remained fuzzy. He sat slumped on the ground and leant against legs on the desk, his muscles trembling. Through blurred vision, he could just make out a dark figure looming towards him.

Harry flinched away and raised his hand slightly to protect his face. The room spun around him. He felt a vial press against his lips and he swallowed on instinct. A foul-tasting liquid filled his mouth and he screwed up his eyes in disgust, momentarily blocking out the spinning world. No sooner had he closed his eyes than he registered two cool fingers against the side of his neck. He squirmed away.

"Potter, stay still," barked an icy voice, although it sounded almost … worried.

Harry opened his eyes, glad to find the room veering back into focus. His cheeks flooded with heat and he made to stand – but his movement was halted by a firm hand on his shoulder, forcing him to remain on the ground.

"Don't move," Snape ordered, keeping his fingers pressed against Harry's neck.

"I'm fine," Harry protested.

"You're clammy and pale and your pulse is racing," Snape observed coldly. "You are not fine."

Waving his wand, Snape transfigured the hard stool into a comfortable armchair. He slowly helped Harry to his feet and guided him gently into the newly altered chair.

Harry sat there, mortified, as Snape stalked over to the cabinet on the far side of the room and gathered a number of glass vials.

"Drink," Snape demanded on his return to Harry's side.

Harry reached out to take the vial, only to find his hands were still trembling violently. He felt weak and shaky. He knew he must look as awful as he felt, for Snape held the potion carefully against his lips, making sure Harry swallowed every last drop of before banishing the empty vial back into the cupboard.

Harry leant back into the chair, wanting nothing more than to sink through the floor, out of sight from Snape's gaze. Snape summoned a stool and sat down opposite him, an unreadable expression on his face.

* * *

Severus stared at the boy in front of him, cursing Poppy's absence. Of all the nights Potter could've chosen to collapse dramatically, why did it have to be when Poppy wasn't there to deal with it?

Leaning forwards, he pressed his hand gently against Potter's forehead, ignoring his feeble attempts to move away. He was relieved to find no sign of a temperature. The boy was clammy to touch though, and a sheen of sweat covered his face even in the cool air of the dungeon.

"Does this happen often?" Severus asked, breaking the silence of the room. Colour flooded Potter's cheeks.

"No sir."

Severus rolled his eyes as Potter tried to shake his head, only to sink back in the chair unsteadily. Imbecile.

"Have you been feeling under the weather today?" Severus queried, hoping desperately that he didn't have a sick Potter on his hands. Especially when he was in charge of the Hospital Wing.

"No sir," Potter repeated.

Severus paused, considering the information. Potter had seemed fine at breakfast; Severus had observed him chatting away to Granger and Weasley, not to mention storming in with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And at lunch… Come to think of it, Severus hadn't seen Potter at lunch. Or at dinner for that matter. In fact, he could count on one hand the number of meals he'd seen Potter attend over the past week.

Waving his wand delicately, he muttered the incantation to determine Potter's blood sugar levels, and was unsurprised to find his hunch was correct. A second spell clearly showed Potter to be a good two stone outside of what would be considered a normal range for a boy his age. Frowning, Severus summoned one of the elves from the kitchen, who reappeared seconds later with a platter of sandwiches, cut-up fruit, and a variety of biscuits.

"Eat," he ordered, summoning a table to rest next to Potter's arm. He watched as the boy bit into a sandwich, wishing for the thousandth time that he could just hand the boy over to Poppy and be done with it.

Instead, he waited for the boy to consume a couple of sandwiches and several slices of apple before accusing, "You haven't been eating properly."

Potter flinched but didn't respond, staring down at the biscuit in his hand as though hoping it held the solution to all the questions of the universe.

"Why weren't you at lunch today?" Severus tried again, determined to get a straight answer out of the boy.

"I was working on an essay."

"And yesterday?"

The boy glowered at him defiantly, and Severus had no doubt that the absence had had to do with his fight with Malfoy. "I wasn't hungry," Potter said flatly.

Severus raised his eyes to the ceiling, silently begging every deity in existence for strength. Forcing himself to keep his voice even, despite the irritation which was beginning to bubble up inside of him, he asked cooly, "are you aware, Mr Potter, that the human body needs food to function properly?"

"I eat enough," Potter argued back.

Severus laughed darkly. "The information here suggests you hardly eat enough to survive." He gestured to the piece of parchment on which Potter's blood sugar levels and other vital information had been recorded. "But I'll be sure to inform Madam Pomfrey of your professional opinion on the matter before you go to see her."

Potter gaped at him, looking stunned, before spluttering, "Pardon?"

"Madam Pomfrey is currently occupied, but rest assured, she'll give you a full check-up when she has finished."

"I'm fine," Potter insisted, "I don't need to go to the hospital wing."

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation, willing himself not to lose his temper at the idiocy of the insolent brat. "You collapsed in my classroom from malnutrition, Potter. You cannot possibly believe that you don't need to see Madam Pomfrey to talk about your eating habits."

Potter opened his mouth to argue again, but Severus interjected before he could. "Do not try to debate with me, Mr Potter. My patience is wearing thin. As soon as Madam Pomfrey returns-,"

"She's not here?" Potter interjected, wincing as he saw the venomous look on the Professor's face. "Sorry," he whispered.

Severus nodded in recognition of the boy's apology, and continued on as though he'd never been interrupted. "When Madam Pomfrey returns next week, you can discuss the matter with her."

He stopped speaking, assessing Potter carefully. The boy's colour had returned and, if his insolence was any indication, the dizziness and confusion seemed to have passed. Casting another diagnostic spell, Severus tried to determine whether it was safe to allow Potter to return to the dorms that evening, or if he'd be forced to monitor him in the Hospital Wing.

He summoned a nutrients potion from the open cupboard and passed it over to Potter, raising an eyebrow at the brat's hesitation. Clearly sensing the professor's impatience, Potter downed the potion in one, putting the empty vial on the table beside him.

Once the boy had washed the taste of potion out of his mouth with a glass of water, he took hold of Potter's arm and began to push his sleeve up, intending to take his pulse again. But he paused, his eyebrows climbing up his brow as he noticed that bruising littered the boy's arms. He hadn't spotted it early, too caught up in the panic of Potter collapsing to the ground without any warning. The bruises were yellowing and faded, Severus noted. He knew then that this was no Quidditch injury.

"What happened to your arms?" he asked.

Potter froze, flushing scarlet. Then his eyes began to dart around the room wildly, liked a caged animal. After a long, awkward moment, he said, "I got in a fight. With my cousin."

Severus knew in an instant that the boy was lying. He was about to call him out on it, when he noticed the mulish expression on Potter's face. He recognised that expression all too well, and knew from the way Potter's jaw was set that he'd get no more out of him that night. He sighed wearily.

"Can you stand?"

The boy nodded uncertainly, as though expecting some sort of trick, but he rose to his feet. He failed to suppress a wince as he did so.

Severus didn't comment, hoping desperately that Poppy came back soon and could deal with the brat. He knew deep within him that the malnutrition was just the tip of the iceberg.

Allowing the boy a moment to regain composure, he scribbled a note to Minerva asking her to meet him in his office in ten minutes and called for a house-elf to deliver it.

He flicked his wand lazily at the door, turning to Potter as it swung open. "Shall we?" he drawled, gesturing towards the corridor.

Potter's eyes flicked to the exit and back. "I don't need you to walk me back to the common room. I'm fine."

Severus rolled his eyes, glaring at the ashen-faced boy, and strode out of the classroom without a word. He watched Potter out of the corner of his eye as he waited for him at the end of the corridor, taking note of his stiff posture and obvious limp.

Poppy really couldn't come back soon enough.

* * *

Severus strode down the familiar passageway to his office fifteen minutes later, having deposited the brat outside his common room with strict instructions to go straight to bed.

He muttered 'wolfsbane' as his office door. It creaked open, revealing Minerva in a warm tartan robe, hair slightly falling out of her normally impeccable bun. She raised an eyebrow at him in unspoken question as he entered.

"You'd better take a seat," he said wearily. "It's Potter."


	5. Chapter 5

Harry did not go to breakfast the next morning. He couldn't bear the thought of Snape's dark eyes judging him. He felt tired and scared and humiliated anyway; and even the idea of eating made him feel nauseous.

He could feel his cheeks heat up as he remembered the previous night. He couldn't believe he'd passed out in front of Snape. He couldn't believe he'd passed out at all, for that matter. After all, he'd had breakfast that morning. He'd gone far longer on a lot less. Just that past summer he'd had to last a whole week without food after the Aunt Marge debacle, and he'd been fine then. Weak, tired and a bit dizzy. But fine.

He ran his fingers through his untidy hair. The common room seemed too small, and for the first time he felt claustrophobic inside the stone walls of Hogwarts. Suddenly desperate to be away from everything, he stood up abruptly mid-conversation, muttered a hasty goodbye to a bewildered Ron and Hermione, and hurried down onto the Quidditch pitch.

He still had half an hour till practice started but his mind was racing and right now he needed the freedom flying offered him.

Launching himself into the air on his Nimbus 2000, Harry soared through open sky, looping and spinning upside-down in exaltation. Yet he couldn't seem to clear his mind the way he normally did, instead reliving the events of the previous evening.

Harry didn't know what to do. Snape had seen his bruises. Snape was going to take him to the Hospital Wing and with a wave of her wand Madam Pomfrey would know everything and Snape would tell the Slytherins and everyone would know what a freak he was. His mind filled with images of Malfoy cackling about how even his own family couldn't stand him.

Harry pushed his broom down sharply, the sudden drop as he raced towards the ground blocking out the mocking laughter which echoed round his head.

He could feel tears in his eyes, but he pretended it was just the wind. He forced himself to calm down, breathing deeply. There was no use in being sad, he reminded himself harshly – Uncle Vernon always said crying was for babies, or for people who someone gave a damn about, and Harry didn't agree with him on much, but he did think his uncle was right on that one.

He turned sharply, his elbows inches away from grazing the goal post. He needed to come up with a plausible explanation for everything, preferably before he was dragged to the Hospital Wing.

He could do it. He'd done it before.

The first step was to make sure you knew exactly what information the other person held. And, more importantly, what they did not. So what did Snape know? He had no idea about the Dursleys. Harry was certain of that given all the times Snape had blamed his 'doting relatives' for Harry's 'spoilt' temperament. All Snape knew was that Harry wasn't eating much, and had a couple of bruises on his arms. He couldn't know about Harry's broken leg, or the faded lines across his back from Aunt Marge's cane. If he had, surely it would've come up in his lecture the previous evening.

Harry felt a sense of hope for the first time that morning as he clung to the rationale. Snape didn't know about the Dursleys. So Harry just had to convince him that there was nothing sinister at play; that he was just a scared little boy, too proud to admit he'd been having nightmares about Black that had made him lose his appetite. He was arrogant too, and embarrassed to admit that the bruises on his arms came from falling off a bike while trying to impress the neighbourhood kids. He was so proud, he'd even made up that lie about his cousin so he wouldn't have to reveal his humiliation. Snape would buy that, hook, line and sinker. Harry was sure of it. He could do it.

The tightness in his chest eased just a little, and Harry relaxed his speed a fraction, so that the wind was no longer whipping against his face. He caught sight of Oliver and the twins walking onto the pitch and hastily forced his mouth into a smile as he landed on the ground beside Katie Bell.

"Right," Wood began, "Now that everyone's here, I want to talk through some new strategies before we start."

George groaned audibly, while Fred muttered about Wood having no respect for the sanctity of the weekend. Harry grinned at their antics, his mood picking up as he settled in to Wood's lecture on formation and tactics.

* * *

"Cracking catch," George congratulated Harry as they landed on the ground three hours later. "I thought you were going to fall off your broom for sure."

"Or get smashed in the face by a skilfully aimed bludger," Fred chimed in.

Harry laughed. "Like the one that knocked Oliver through the goal-post?"

The twins chortled. "I reckon that would've been worth at least 200 points in a real match," George said proudly. "He deserved it too. We spent forty minutes looking at those bloody diagrams."

"I swear they get worse every year," Fred complained, "I couldn't even follow what was happening in that last one."

"Maybe you'd find it easier if your eyes weren't closed," Harry said, exchanging a grin with George.

Fred never got the chance to respond, for their conversation was interrupted by Snape stalking over, a thunderous glare on his face.

"Potter. My office. Now," he snarled. He turned away sharply, storming off towards the castle without waiting for Harry to follow.

"Blimey, Harry," Fred said as he watched the Potion Master's retreating figure, "It's not even midday and you've already driven Snape to contemplate murder."

"And on a Saturday as well!" George said admiringly.

"Almost beats our record. Little Harrykins is growing up so fast," Fred cackled, his eyes alight with mischievous glee.

"I'd better go see what I've done to upset him this time," said Harry, frowning slightly. The last thing he needed was more detentions for some slight offence.

"You probably smiled somewhere in his vicinity. He hates it when you do that." George's expression was entirely serious, and Harry snorted despite his anxiety.

"If you're not back in an hour, we'll be sure to give Ron our most heartfelt condolences." The twins sniggered, loudly discussing how they'd break the news to Oliver that he needed to look for a new Seeker, as they parted from Harry in the entrance hall – taking the stairs up towards the safety of Gryffindor Tower while he turned forlornly to follow the nearly out-of-sight Potions Master to the dungeons.

Harry felt his heart sink as he made his way down the familiar passageway that led to Snape's office. His body suddenly seemed too heavy to move, and he struggled to force himself to put one foot in front of the other. His could feel his heart racing in his chest. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, until he finally had to stop entirely and lean against the wall.

He concentrated on his breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling as he tried to calm his racing heart. _In … out … in …_

"Potter," Snape growled in a low, menacing voice, much closer than Harry expected, "Why, pray tell, are you loitering in the corridor? Was the meaning of the word 'now' somehow unclear to you?"

Harry flinched, the furious tone snapping him back to reality and upright once more. He stumbled, and had to fling his hands out against the wall again to stop himself from falling.

Looking up, he found Snape's dark eyes boring into him with such an intensity that he was forced to drop his gaze, staring at the rough grey stone beneath his feet.

Snape clamped his hand onto Harry's shoulder, and steered him into his office without another word.

* * *

Harry stared down at his feet as he sat on the familiar stool in front of Snape's desk. The professor had been eerily silent since they'd entered the room, but his obsidian eyes were burning a hole into Harry's head.

Finally, when it became clear that Harry wasn't going to say a word, Snape opened his mouth speak. "You skipped breakfast," he accused.

Harry blinked at him in bewilderment. He'd been expecting the man to ridicule him for what happened last night, or again chastise his dithering in the corridor. "Sir?"

His confusion seemed to anger the professor further. "You skipped breakfast, despite fainting from low blood sugar induced by malnutrition a mere twelve hours prior. And then you went and played Quidditch for three hours. Fifty feet off the ground, at risk of a repeat incident at any moment. Do you have no common sense whatsoever?"

Harry gaped at him. He opened his mouth to defend himself and then closed it again.

"What. Were. You. Thinking?" Snape thundered. "You could've collapsed fifty feet in the air. You could've died, Potter. Does that mean nothing to you? Everyone, from the Minister for Magic downward, has been trying to keep you safe, but your reckless, fool-hardy stunts make their efforts utterly worthless." Snape paused for breath, glaring menacingly.

"Sorry," Harry said, surprised by how small his voice sounded even to his own ears. He kept his eyes fixed on his hands.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you," Snape demanded. "Tell me Potter, are you incapable of looking after yourself?"

"I look after myself fine!"

"You don't eat. You hardly sleep if the rings under your eyes and incessant yawning are anything to go by. You risk your life for pointless stunts. So forgive me, Mr Potter, if I disagree with your opinion on the matter."

Harry was breathing heavily again now, glaring at Snape. He had a furious retort on the tip of his tongue, but Snape continued before he could interject.

"Until you've had a full check-up with Madam Pomfrey, you are-,"

Someone banged suddenly on the door, distracting Snape from whatever new horror he'd been about to hand down. With a look of grim fury, Snape opened it with a flick of his wand, revealing Miles Bletchley, soaking wet and gasping for breath. He paused in mild confusion as he took in the tension in the room. Then, in-between gulps of air, he blurted out, "Sir. The common room's been completely flooded. Filch sent me to find you – says you've got to come."

Professor Snape stood quickly, sending one last poisonous glare at Harry. "You are dismissed Potter. For now. But rest assured we will continue this conversation later."

He strode out of the room after his panicked student.

Harry raced back to Gryffindor Tower as quickly as his injured leg would allow, desperate to get as far away from Snape's domain as possible. He couldn't believe his luck at Snape being called away. The timing was perfect. Too perfect…

A suspicion formed in Harry's mind, and sure enough when he entered the common room, he found Fred and George dripping wet and too animated to be anything but guilty.

"What on earth did you two do?" Harry asked in amusement, taking in their innocent expressions.

"Nothing much," George said carelessly.

"A tiny bit of mischief," Fred added.

"Minuscule, really. Although a few Slytherins might be left with hard feelings against us."

"Though how they could possibly accuse us of being the ones to jinx the Slytherin common room with a never-stop rainstorm charm when there's absolutely no evidence of us ever having been anywhere close, I don't know," Fred shook his head as he spoke, droplets of water flying off his red hair and onto the scarlet rug.

"We couldn't let you get any more detentions with Snape. Ollie's heart wouldn't be able to take it." George nodded towards Wood, who was hunched over sheets of parchments covered in scribbled Quidditch strategies, with a look of feigned concern.

Harry grinned at the two boys, grateful they'd gotten him out of Snape's office before he'd had a chance to ask Harry any more difficult questions. Or give him yet another detention.

Harry thanked the twins again, before wandering over to the other side of the common room, where Hermione and Ron were immersed in conversation, their faces grim. They fell silent as Harry approached, and he knew they'd been talking about him.

Harry didn't call them out on it, too tired from his narrow escape from Snape to care. Instead, he collapsed into the chair next to them, allowing the fire to warm his freezing hands. "Snape is such a git," he said in answer to Hermione's unasked question. He proceeded to tell them the tale of how he'd been dragged to Snape's office, though he neglected to mention quite why that had been.

* * *

Severus stalked into the staffroom, casting a drying charm over himself with a silent flick of his wand. He dropped into a chair beside Minerva, lacking his usual elegance, and let out an irritated sigh.

"The Weasley menaces flooded the Slytherin common room," he growled without preamble.

Minerva's lips thinned, and she put her cup of tea back onto the table with a sigh. "I suppose you have proof?"

Severus scoffed at her. The idea that anyone but the Weasley twins would be involved was ludicrous. They were the only ones with the motive or – as much as Severus hated to admit it – the talent. The jinx they'd used was a complex one, modified from its original version so that that every time the counter charm was cast, it promptly began to rain somewhere else in room. Roger Davies or Otto Cresswell might have risked his ire for a similar prank… but neither had the aptitude to modify charms to such a degree. He scowled. This was precisely why the twins always managed the most chaos of all the miscreants about.

"I had Potter in my office," Severus said, as though that explained everything, "The twins were with him when I confronted him coming off the pitch."

"You had Potter in your office?" She repeated, as though the mayhem the twins had caused was inconsequential compared to this fact.

"The imbecile skipped breakfast to partake in a three-hour long Quidditch session, despite collapsing yesterday evening." Minerva's eyes narrowed in irritation as he spoke, but he pressed on before she could interrupt, "He simply cannot be allowed to play Quidditch, at least until Poppy's given him a full examination and determined he will not do himself injury. It just isn't safe for him to be fifty feet up in the air."

The irritation in Minerva's expression had faded into weariness as he finished, and it took her a long moment to reply.

"Only until his health improves," she finally consented. She reached for her cup of tea again. "Poor lad. He hasn't been himself this term. I suppose he's worrying himself to death about Black."

Though Severus nodded along, he found himself unable to agree with her assessment. He remembered the previous term, when Granger had been petrified. Potter had been terrified then, but he hadn't shut down the way he had this autumn. The brat had eaten and slept and remained as arrogant and defiant as he always had been.

No, Severus decided, there was something else at play.

As he mulled over the issue, he wondered why Poppy hadn't picked up on any of this when Potter had gotten his nose fixed. He knew she must've been hurried, for she'd left shortly after, but he'd never known her not to notify a student's Head of House if she had even the slightest inkling something might be wrong.

But Minerva had been quite clear that Poppy had said nothing to her when they discussed Potter the previous night. Although she had received a letter from Molly Weasley concerning the boy. Severus, remembering that Potter had spent the previous summer with the family (and the infuriating debacle with the flying car that had ensued), was struck with sudden suspicion.

"Minerva, might I see a copy of that letter from Weasley's mother you mentioned last night?"

If Minerva was surprised by his sudden question, she didn't show it. She merely agreed, and they walked together to her office in silence, both consumed by their own thoughts.

* * *

Harry made his way to the owlery, his leg aching fiercely by the time he reached the top of the West Tower.

He had had a particularly pleasant afternoon that day. It had poured down with rain, forcing everyone into the common room, and Harry and Ron had spent their time procrastinating – forgoing their work on Snape's latest essay in favour of chatting and flicking chocolate frog cards at one another. Hermione had gone to the library, and it was only an off-hand comment about not knowing whether to buy a new quill or wait and see if her parents sent her one next week that jogged the boys' memories.

Hermione's birthday was only three days away.

Frantically, Harry and Ron had filled out an order form for a luxury eagle-feather quill, a bar of Honeydukes' Finest Chocolate and, as a joke, splintery Toothflossing Stringmints. However, Ron had become engrossed in a chess-match against Evie Proudfoot (a highly competitive second year) and so Harry had offered to send the order on his own.

Harry shivered as he reached the owlery. A September chill had solidified in the air over the past week, and the tower was cold and draughty as the evening light faded with the sunset.

"'Lo, Hedwig," Harry murmured, as his snowy owl flew down from the rafters and landed on his shoulder. He stroked her feathers gently, relishing the silence of the owlery. He loved the Gryffindor common room _for_ its noise and life and chaos; it was so different from Privet Drive. And yet, sometimes, Harry craved the peace and solitude which his cupboard used to provide.

Harry stared out of the tower windows as the sun sank from sight and the grounds began a slow descent into darkness. He was just about to turn away, when he saw a shadow running across the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Harry squinted hard, trying to make out its shape. Then it raced into a beam of light from one of Hagrid's windows, and Harry recoiled in horror as he recognised the jet-black, mattered fur and skeletal frame. In his panic, he could have sworn he even saw the gleam of its yellow eyes in the light of the moon.

It was the Grim. The omen of misfortune Trelawney had warned him about. The one he'd seen the night he'd left Privet Drive… the night he had thought Vernon might actually kill him…

Before he could even blink, the spectre disappeared again into the black of the trees.

He clenched his hands into fists to quell their shaking. Even so, his fingers trembled as he fought to attach the order form to Hedwig's leg. At last, he managed it. She gave his ear a sympathetic nibble before winging away into the night.

He watched her out of sight, then turned, shrugged off his unease, and made his way as quickly down the stone stairs as his leg would allow, anxious to get back to the common room. He rounded the corner at full speed –

And slammed into something hard, completely losing his balance and tumbling to the ground.

"Mr Potter, is there any reason you're running round the corridors like a lunatic?" McGonagall said sternly.

"Sorry, Professor," Harry mumbled, pushing himself off the floor with a barely-stifled gasp of pain.

She paused, staring at him. Her normally severe expression softened a bit, into what Harry suspected, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, mightbe concern. "Are you quite alright? You're very pale."

"I'm fine, Professor," Harry said, trying his best to keep his tone normal, "Just late for dinner."

She frowned at him, and the knot in his stomach grew. She knew. Snape must've mentioned what had happened the previous night. That was just brilliant, he thought bitterly.

The professor looked for a moment as though she was about to say something, but then shook her head slightly.

"I won't keep you, then. Off you go, Mr Potter, and do _walk_ this time."

Harry nodded contritely, relief flooding through him. He gave her a half smile as he continued on his way, working hard to keep the limp out of his walk.

He did not turn back. If he had, Harry may have realised McGonagall had remained as she stood, watching him out of sight with abject concern on her face.

* * *

Severus sat back against his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. In front of him lay Molly Weasley's letter, which Minerva had delivered to his office shortly before dinner. After a long day of dealing with miscreants, he craved the undisturbed peace of his chambers, and had order a plate of food there rather than braving the chaos of the Great Hall

The plate sat untouched at the edge of his desk.

Mrs. Weasley had made several complaints, all of which Severus had seen for himself in the boy. He was half starved. He was sleep deprived. He was favouring his left leg. But after that, the letter got more intriguing, for she wrote that Potter had arrived at her home the previous summer in a similar state.

The visit that had led to that damnable flying car, he remembered with another scowl.

But he banished the memory from his mind. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.

He scanned the next few lines again, his frown deepening with every word. 'Bars on his windows' … 'a can of soup a day' … 'suspicious bruises'…

The memory of Potter flinching, hands outstretched to protect his face, rushed unbidden to the front of Severus' mind. Followed by an image of the spark of fear in the boy's eyes when he had insisted that he visit the Hospital Wing… when he realised that someone would be performing a more thorough examination.

There was a pattern emerging. A pattern Severus knew all too well.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry stared at Ron's pale pink teacup in bemusement.

"Well, go on," Ron encouraged in mock seriousness. "Tell me my future."

"There's a circle, which could either be a sun or a skull…" Harry consulted Unfogging the Future again "Or an acorn…"

"That narrows it down," Ron snorted, "so I'm either going to achieve great happiness, unexpected gold or great danger. Harry, mate, I think your inner eye needs glasses too."

"Or maybe my glasses are blocking off my inner eye," Harry played along. Reaching an arm up with a flourish, he took his glasses off, blinking in confusion as the world veered out of focus. He stared at the fuzzy, shapeless blob of tea leaves that had collected at the bottom of the blue cup.

"The cup says you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow."

Hermione rolled her eyes as Ron sniggered. "You two really ought to take this seriously," she scolded.

Ron made a face. "Hermione," he said slowly, as though talking to a child, "We are trying to tell the future using tea leaves. Believe me, I'm taking this as seriously as I ought to."

She frowned at him, but turned back to the textbook without further comment. Harry took this as a sign she couldn't think of an argument against this.

Draining the last of his own tea with a gulp, Harry pushed the cup to Ron. "Your turn. Here, maybe these will help give your inner eye some clarity." Harry passed him his glasses, which he'd shoved into his pocket moments before.

Ron placed them on his nose with an exaggerated flourish, grimacing as his vision blurred. He studied the tea cup with an air of great importance, before declaring in a mystical voice, "Young Harry, you are in grave danger. I see a club and a falcon – you are going to attack a deadly enemy." Ron paused, and his voice returned to normal as he spoke again, "I think your tea leaves are defective. You did that last week. Hermione, can we swap tea leaves? Harry's are showing the past rather than the future."

The two boys burst out laughing again, and hastily tried to smother their snorts before they attracted Trelawney's unwanted attention. Ron passed Harry his glasses back, and the world came into focus to show Hermione's frowning at them in a manner he recognised all too well – she was seconds away from launching into a lecture from which there would be no escape.

There was no way Harry would be able to maintain a straight face if he caught Ron's eye, so he turned his attention instead to his textbook.

He stared down at chapter two of _Unfogging the Future_, his mind wandering as he did so. He felt lighter than he had in weeks, for the bruises which had littered his body had finally faded into nothing. Only the pain in his leg reminded Harry of his terrible summer. And if he pretended hard enough, he could almost convince himself that was a Quidditch injury.

Now all he had to do was convince Snape he was fine – and he had a plan for that – and then he'd finally be free from the shackles of his secret. Finally, he'd be able to feel like himself again, and be rid of the shadow of Uncle Vernon hovering over his shoulder.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps creaking across the old wooden floorboards, informing him of Trelawney's presence.

He nudged Ron quickly, reaching for his friend's teacup as he did so. "And there's a five-leaf clover, which indicates you'll develop a severe rash," he said, scrunching his eyebrows together to feign concentration.

Patiently, he waited till Trelawney had moved out of earshot before adding, "which Eloise Midgen will try to curse off your face."

They descended into peals of laughter again.

* * *

Harry and Ron made their way to lunch an hour or so later still developing outlandish predictions about one another's future in between gasps of amusement (Hermione having stalked huffily away to walk with Mandy Brocklehurst).

The rain drummed against the enchanted ceiling as they entered the Great Hall, grey clouds having gathered ominously in the sky over the morning. Despite the dreary weather, the hall was alive with the sound of unrestrained chatter. The Gryffindor table was particularly riotous, and Harry was unsurprised to spot Fred and George at the centre of it all, animatedly telling a joke to a group of fifth years Harry didn't recognise.

"Trelawney's room always makes me so tired," Ron yawned as they settled into their familiar spot at the Gryffindor table. "It's all that perfume, I reckon. I don't know how I'm going to make it through Transfiguration this afternoon."

Harry nodded distractedly, watching as Snape strode into the Great Hall, his charcoal robes billowing out behind him.

He grimaced. With a significant effort, he'd succeeded in avoiding Snape for the rest of the weekend, hiding out in the common room playing chess with Ron for the duration of the rainy Sunday afternoon after the tempestuous weather had curtailed Quidditch. Only for meals had he left the safety of Gryffindor Tower, and even then he'd only done so in his efforts to evade any more unwanted attention from the dour professor.

But he could hide no longer. His detentions resumed that evening, and Harry knew Snape had every intention of finishing the conversation which the twins had rescued him from.

"Harry?" Hermione questioned, forcing his attention back to the present.

"Sorry," he smiled apologetically, "I was just wondering whether Wood's going to be forced to cancel practise again."

Even Wood's fanatic obsession with winning the Cup didn't extent to practising in the storm that had broken out over the weekend. Although he _had_ attempted to go over his notes on team strategy for the hundredth time in the Gryffindor Common Room on Sunday, at least until George had stolen them. Harry grinned at the memory of Wood frantically upending sofas and shaking down first years in mad desperation, all while George sat by the fire, merrily entertaining Ellie Cattermole with stories of his and Fred's escapades.

Wood had been furious after. Harry and Ron had even paused their game of chess – which Ron had been three moves from winning anyway – to watch him swear furiously at George, who'd merely grinned unrepentantly at Wood's beetroot face.

"At least we don't have Care of Magical Creatures today," Hermione commented, as the first rumbles of thunder echoed through the Hall.

"Are you saying you don't want to stand out in the pouring rain feeding shredded lettuce to Flobberworms?" Ron sad in a scandalised tone.

Harry laughed, about to join in - but at that moment a burst of noise came from a group of fourth years. He craned his neck to see what was going on, and caught sight of Cormac McLaggen - a large wire-haired boy in the year above - rummaging through his bag and stuffing something into his mouth with a flourish to a cacophony of laughter and shouting.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked.

"McLaggen just ate three hundred grams of alihotsy leaves for a dare," Fred informed her, collapsing onto the bench next to Ron.

"He's such an idiot," said George dismissively, watching contemptuously as Andrew Campbell and James Proudfoot hoisted the boy – who was frothing at the mouth while laughing hysterically – out of his seat and began half-dragging him out of the hall, presumably in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

"The prat does something like that every term," Fred added, rolling his eyes. "Spends a couple of days being fussed over by Madam Pomfrey and comes back as big a git as ever."

Hermione let out a sudden gasp of laughter. The four boys all turned to stare at her in surprise. "Madam Pomfrey's away," she explained between giggles. "Mandy told me. Apparently, Professor Snape's in charge of the Hospital Wing."

Fred and George made eye contact for a moment, before bursting into howls of laughter. Even Harry smirked, not quite sure whether he felt sorrier for McLaggen or Snape.

* * *

Severus glowered at McLaggen's sleeping form.

The halfwit was lucky not to be in St Mungo's after the stunt he'd just pulled. Even with his considerable knowledge in healing, Severus had struggled to keep the dolt conscious long enough to be given the imbecile an Expunging Elixir to rid his body of the toxic leaves. After that, the simpleton had still needed a couple of more specialised potions to stop the convulsions and frothing at the mouth, which few Hospitals except St Mungo's had ready. Given the immense effort Severus had put in to keeping the dunderhead mentally cognitive, he'd debated slipping him a Wit-Sharpening potion – a necessary procedure to protect the halfwit from his own stupidity - just to make sure he never had to waste so much time on the dunce again. But he'd decided against it; if only because the armadillo bile would counteract the porcupine quills in the Expunging Elixir, a potentially fatal side-effect which could lead to a dreary mountain of paperwork.

With a slight huff, he glanced testily at his watch. The replacement nurse was supposed to arrive any minute now. Albus had assured him she'd arrive no later than Monday afternoon – yet it had just gone six o'clock and the floo in Poppy's office remained dormant.

He scowled fiercely at the fireplace, as though he could make the temporary matron appear by sheer will. Between Potter and the bloody-minded, reckless, imbecilic Gryffindor who was moaning in his sleep on the starched hospital bed, he hadn't had a moment's peace all day.

Grumbling under his breath as he made his way into Poppy's office, he settled himself into her desk chair, leaving the door wide open so he could keep the dunce in his sight at all times. Then he picked up his favourite raven feather quill, plunged it into the pot of red ink beside him, and settled in to mark the fourth years no doubt abysmal essays on antidotes to common poisons. Scathing comments already raced to his mind, though he'd yet to read a single word.

Rain continued to pelt down from the deep grey sky, covering the grounds of Hogwarts in a bleak mist. The already-hidden sun dipped beyond the mountains with the deepening evening, and night fell in starless black. The ticking of the ancient clock above the mantelpiece in Poppy's office mingled with the gentle scratching of quill on parchment and the patter of water against mullioned windows.

It was the long, eerie shriek of a barn owl which broke Severus Snape's focus some time later, and his eyes flicked to the clock on instinct.

It was quarter past seven. He realised with a jolt that he had completely forgotten about Potter's detention.

With much consideration, he'd decided not to bother confronting the boy over the weekend, not when the weather kept him safely inside the stone walls of the castle and out of harm's way. But he had planned to speak to the boy that evening; to confirm his suspicions and perform a more thorough examination.

Perhaps he should have done so Friday. But he had been too focused on Potter's immediate state to do more than cast a couple of quick spells which alerted him to the boy's weight, vitamin deficiencies, and blood sugar levels. In hindsight, he should've dragged the boy to the Hospital Wing then and there. But he had still been hoping to pass the boy and the necessity for a lecture on proper nutrition off onto Poppy. And he hadn't realised; not truly.

Now, with his suspicions that Potter's behaviour was concealing a more sinister reality, waiting was not a viable option.

But he couldn't leave McLaggen unsupervised. Not when he was at risk of having a seizure brought on by the potential side-effects of the Expunging Elixir and the Convulsions Concoction being administered simultaneously.

He sighed heavily and summoned a fresh scroll of parchment, scrawling a quick note for Potter.

"Mimsy," he called. A house-elf appeared before him, clothed in a freshly starched pillow case and staring at him expectantly with its large tennis-ball eyes. "Give this to Mr. Potter, and alert me if he doesn't return to Gryffindor Tower immediately."

Mimsy vanished with a pop, leaving Severus alone in his borrowed office. He looked down at the dismal essay before him, quickly scrawled a P at the top, and pulled the next one off the pile in front of him. If he was going to deal properly with Potter tomorrow, it was imperative that he finish all of his marking that evening.

Clearing his mind of everything except potions, he turned back to the abysmal essay before him. Only to once again be disrupted by the sound of McLaggen groaning loudly in his sleep, his blanket falling to the ground as he tossed and turned around the bed. The professor paused halfway down the latest travesty of an essay to glare suspiciously in his direction.

It seemed to Severus all his troubles could be traced back to a single source.

Gryffindors.

* * *

Harry was unable to keep a smile off his face as he ambled into the Gryffindor common room, overjoyed that Snape had been forced to cancel his detention. Looking about, he caught sight of a bush yhead bent over a piece of parchment in the corner. He grinned and started across the room.

Hermione did not even notice his approach. She was scribbling away with almost electric frenzy, barely slowing the pace even to cross-check her work against the massive textbook propped up before her. Her hair hung wilder than even her usual, and her eyes – darting frantically between reference and essay – seemed more sunken and hooded than he remembered. As he got closer, Harry could see she'd leant the tome against a rucksack so full of parchment, quills and books that he thought she must have enchanted the zips not to burst.

He dropped down beside her, knocking the warn tartan throw off the arm of the sofa as he did so. "We're in the fourth week of term Hermione. You're acting like we have exams tomorrow."

She dropped her quill with a start and a barely muffled squeak. "Harry. I thought you had detention with Professor Snape?"

"He cancelled it. He sent me a note, saying he was 'otherwise engaged dealing with the consequences of reckless behaviour."

"Reckless behaviour?"

"I 'spose he means McLaggen."

Hermione frowned, finishing the final line of her essay with a flourish before she responded. "Professor McGonagall's absolutely furious with him. She gave the whole lot who were egging him on a week's detention with Filch. And she's writing to Matthew Roper's parents – he's the one who dared McLaggen to do it."

Harry winced in sympathy. Detention with Filch was about the only thing worse than detention with Snape. Although the way Harry's had gone lately in the dungeon made him almost wish he was stuck polishing trophies and away from Snape's prying eyes.

Though, for all Snape seemed intent on watching him, he hadn't bothered to seek Harry out that weekend, nor had he had any qualms about cancelling his detention. Maybe he'd forgotten all about Harry, or he'd lost interest.

It wasn't like he cared about him.

Harry smiled to himself. His bruises were gone – in fact, they'd practically vanished overnight - Snape seemed to be leaving him alone, and he could relax in the comfort of the Tower with Hermione and Ron…

"Where's Ron?" he asked, realising for the first time that Hermine had been sat alone.

Without turning her attention away from her work, she gestured to the far corner of the room, where Ron was engaged in a lively round of Exploding Snap with Dean and Seamus. Seamus was missing half an eyebrow and seemed distinctly more frazzled than the other two.

"He didn't want to spend his evening doing homework," Hermione said primly. She reached into her bag and withdrew a fresh sheet of parchment, writing down the title for what Harry could only guess was an essay on Ancient Runes. "Are you going to join him?"

Harry shook his head and nestled further into the sofa, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the peaceful scratch of Hermione's quill against parchment. A sense of peace had overcome him, he felt blissfully relaxed, and had little desire to join in with the roaring excitement of the other boys. "I think I'll start on the reading McGonagall set."

He rummaged through his bag for a moment, before swearing loudly. "I leant my copy of _Intermediate Transfiguration_ to Neville."

"You can borrow mine," Hermione grabbed it off the pile of books and passed it over to him. "Neville's hardly ever in the common room anymore," she added with a frown

"Really?" Harry thought back over the past few weeks, and realised she was right. "He's probably with Ernie. Aren't they Herbology partners this year?"

Hermione nodded, her attention already shifting back to her copy of _Numerology and Grammatica_. Following her lead, Harry opened to chapter two of his own book and began to read, the gentle chatter and occasional roars of laughter from the people around him melting into the background.

* * *

The floo roared to life at long life, breaking Severus out of his reverie and drenching the final fourth year essay of the pile in emerald green light.

"Finally." he muttered to himself. It was already quarter to eleven, and his impatience to return to his quarters had been growing stronger with every passing minutes. He pushed the essays aside and stood to meet the replacement Healer. "You're late!" he barked.

But as he turned, he found himself staring into the clear blue eyes of Poppy Pomfrey, her face haggard and her posture weary. Severus didn't know the nature of the emergency that had called her away, but he recognised her warn-out expression and the cracked skin on her hands all too well. Wherever she had been, nothing good had happened.

With a pang of guilt, he softened his tone. "My apologies. Albus did not inform me you'd be arriving back tonight."

Poppy inclined her head, acknowledging both his apology and unspoken question, but offered no explanation. She shut her eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in the scent of Cleaning Solution and Pepper-Up Potions that clung to her office. Some of the weariness seemed to melt from her face.

When she spoke, her tone was as brisk and steady as ever. She cut straight to the point, "Where there any incidents that I ought to aware of it?"

"McLaggen," Severus gestured to the quivering form in the bed nearest to the office door, "is currently under observation after being given Expunging Elixir and the Convulsions Concoction simultaneously. Treatment necessitated by his incomprehensible _intentional _overdose on alihotsy leaves."

Poppy sighed deeply. "Oh he didn't…"

"He did," Severus confirmed grimly. "Luckily, the cretins had the sense to bring him here before he came to any permanent harm."

"I had him in here last year for two weeks when he consumed plimpy eyes. Whatever's next? A litre of Lethe water? A pound of doxy eggs? A handful of fire seeds, perhaps?" She exhaled slowly, as though to calm herself, "I'll speak to Minerva about this tomorrow. See if she can't scare some sense into the boy."

He nodded, glad he could hand over the thankless task of caring for one imbecilic Gryffindor to Poppy. Speaking of which…"

"There was an incident with Potter a few days ago. Did you notice anything amiss when he came to have his nose healed last Thursday?"

Poppy raised an eyebrow. "Harry never came to see me; I haven't seen the boy since the Welcoming Feast. What sort of incident? Quidditch related, or did he decide to fight another basilisk?"

Severus' lip twitched minutely; he could always count on Poppy to have as much disdain for the brat's reckless stunts as he did, even if her own sarcasm was tainted by the infuriatingly fond twinkle that seemed to grace so many eyes when it came to Potter.

"He collapsed from a combination of low-blood sugar and malnutrition. I didn't do any further diagnostics. I haven't practised Healing magic with any particular regularity since the brat was born and my abilities lie primarily in first-aid and potions rather than treating any longstanding conditions."

Poppy smiled at him, a hint of pity in her eyes. They both knew why he'd stopped practising healing magic even if neither would say…

Hastening to keep the conversation on track, Severus continued his diatribe, not bothering to keep his irritation with the boy hidden. "Potter was supposed to come to the Hospital Wing on Thursday. I _specifically_ instructed him to do so."

He was not surprised the brat had disobeyed him; he'd been doing so since he first stepped foot in the school. Nevertheless, he'd have to come up with a fitting punishment for the boy's insolence…

Poppy ignored his comments on the boy's disobedience. "Did Potter present any other symptoms?"

"He has bruises on his arms – bruises too old to have occurred since his return to school. He's been limping around the corridors like Igor the hunchback, on what I strongly suspect is an injured leg. He's been reticent, and is particularly unwilling to talk about any of the above," Severus recited methodically, his expression devoid of any emotion. "And, apparently, he trusted some unqualified child to heal his nose in the Gryffindor common room, rather than present himself to the Hospital Wing as instructed."

Poppy tsked, and Severus was sure that she had the same word on the tip of her tongue.

Gryffindors.

"Do you know how he received these injuries?"

The two shared a long, achingly familiar look. This was hardly the first student who had prompted such conversation.

"I have my suspicions," he admitted at last.

Her face crumbled, just for a moment, and Severus almost regretted bothering her with the matter that evening.

But she cleared her throat and shook her head, shifting back into professional mode before he could even offer a word's apology.

"Bring him here tomorrow." She instructed briskly. "I'll give him a full check-up."

* * *

"Potter. Stay behind," Snape barked as the bell rang, signifying the end of lessons for the day.

Harry groaned internally, wondering what on earth he'd done to anger the man this time. They hadn't even been brewing that day, and Harry was pretty sure Snape hadn't spotted him and Ron passing notes – he definitely would've taken points if he had.

He waited dejectedly for his classmates to file out, ignoring Malfoy's malicious grin and Ron's sympathetic grimace, before moving to stand in front of Snape's desk.

"Sir?"

"Sit down, Potter." Snape demanded, gesturing to the familiar stool. He waited for Harry to sit and leant over his own desk, dark eyebrows drawn tight together. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me why you didn't go to see Madam Pomfrey like I instructed."

Harry froze.

"Well?" snarled Snape.

Harry stared down at his hands. There was no point in lying. Snape clearly knew. Which could only mean one thing. Madam Pomfrey was back.

"Look at me, Potter."

Harry raised his head, glaring defiantly into the Professor's obsidian eyes, but refused to speak.

"I told you before I will not tolerate any more disobedience from you this term. I will not have you refusing to do as I tell you or lying to me-."

"I didn't lie!"

"_I got into a fight with my cousin_," Snape mimicked cruelly. "I am not one of your little sycophants, Potter. I know when you are lying to me, and I will not tolerate it."

Harry's fists clenched involuntarily. He could feel tremors running through his body, though he could not say if they were from anger or fear. He looked down again, counting the tiles on the craggy stone floor as the seconds ticked on. The copper taste of blood twanged in his mouth, and he realised that he'd bit the inside of his cheek when he'd clenched his jaw. Still he said nothing, waiting for Snape to give him a yet another detention or continue his lecture.

Snape glowered at him. "I suppose it's too much to expect the famous Harry Potter to accept responsibility for any wrongdoing. Others may allow you such disregard for rules, Potter, but I will always hold you accountable for your actions. So, pray tell, why did decide to ignore the direct instruction of a professor and not go to the Hospital Wing as you were commanded to do?"

"I didn't need to!" Harry retorted.

He was sick of this. He just wanted to be left alone, not hauled up before Snape for not running whinging to the Hospital Wing. He was perfectly capable of looking after himself – he'd been doing so his whole life.

"Oh yes, I forgot that your many years of medical training and advanced knowledge of Healing magic," Snape sneered. "You are, obviously, _more _than qualified to make such a decision for yourself. Of course you didn't need to take the advice of an adult. Why would you?"

"I got it fixed! What does it matter if I went to the bloody Hospital Wing or not?" Harry was breathing heavy now, too furious to even care that he was shouting at Snape.

"Enough." Snape roared. "I am not willing to put up with your infantile temper-tantrum for a minute longer."

Harry watched as the Professor took a deep breath, his palm pressed against the table. This, more than anything, calmed Harry down slightly, for Uncle Vernon never stayed still or calm when enraged.

Suddenly, he realised what'd he done – he'd _yelled_ at Snape, he'd sworn in front of him! He could feel the blood drain from his face, and his own hands began to tremble slightly.

He could sense Snape's gaze burning a hole in the top of his skull. His breath began to quicken. "Sorry," he muttered, not daring to look at the Potion's Master.

"We will talk about this later," Snape promised coldly. He rose from his chair. "As you've made it quite clear you cannot be trusted to go to the Hospital Wing alone, I will escort you there now."

"I don't need to see Madam Pomfrey," Harry protested fiercely.

"I don't recall asking you. Get up this instant, Potter." Snape waited a moment to see if Harry would move. "Now! Unless you want me to drag you through the corridors."

Harry glanced at the door, trying desperately to find a way out of the situation. It was futile. Still, he refused to move, and remained seated on the stool, eyes fixed on the ground.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He flinched away rapidly, jumping to his feet, and ducked his head to avoid the blow that ought to follow. It never came.

Snape's hand stayed firmly on Harry's shoulder. And he led the boy out of the classroom and towards Pomfrey's domain.


	7. Chapter 7

Severus deposited Potter on one of the beds with strict instructions not to move an inch unless he wanted to spent every weekend until Christmas in the company of Filch, before knocking with a single sharp tap on the Matron's office door.

"I've brought Potter," he announced without preamble. "He was reluctant to come so I thought it best to escort him here myself."

"Thank you, Severus," Poppy said tiredly, rising from behind her desk. She withdrew her hawthorn wand from one of her many pockets and with a flick of her wand ascertained that the one-way silencing spell on her office door was active.

"Is there something you need before I return to my quarters?" Severus asked tersely, recognising the spell she'd cast.

She seemed to struggle to find the right words. "Exams of this nature require a witness," she began delicately. "Someone with the requisite qualifications and who can be trusted to keep silent on anything revealed." She sighed wearily at the confusion evident on his face. "I'm asking you to be the witness to Potter's examination."

"You've never required my presence before. Why can't Healer Dawson assist you as usual? I believe he's been doing so for fifteen years now."

Poppy looked as tired as he'd ever seen her, and Severus recognised the sympathy in her clear blue eyes.

"Like it or not, Harry Potter isn't just another student. Until your suspicions are proven, and even after, word of this cannot reach the general public or the poor boy's secrets will be splashed over the front page of every newspaper in the country. I'd hesitate to consult even the most discreet of my colleagues with this; the shock of the Boy Who Lived being investigated for abuse might be too much to ensure their silence."

"Dawson's under a binding confidentiality agreement when it comes to patients." Severus argued coldly.

"I trust Dawson," Poppy defended, "But he's duty bound to provide a written report of the examination and as much as I trust him, you cannot deny that there are people within the Healing profession who would gladly break their oath to sneak a glance at _Harry Potter's_ casefile. And even those with enough _decorum_ not to go to the press will not be able to contain their horror that _The Boy Who Lived_ has been treated in such a manner." She paused for a moment, and then continued on in a softer voice, "I know you dislike for him to be treated as anything but a normal child but in this instant, there is simply no other option."

Severus exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't find a single fault in the argument she'd presented to him. It didn't matter that as far as he was concerned Potter was a third year Gryffindor with a penchant for mischief, to the rest of the country he was their saviour, a public figure whose personal life was fair game for every gossip rag to speculate about. Severus wouldn't wish that on a child, even if that child was an arrogant, attention-seeking clone of his childhood nemesis.

"Potter won't be pleased." He said at last.

Poppy smiled tightly at his unspoken consent. "No," she agreed, "He won't be."

Without any more fanfare, she pushed open the office door and walked slowly towards Potter, the clicking of her heels against the stone floor announcing her presence to the waiting boy.

* * *

Harry wrapped his arms around his knees, curling into himself with his back against the headboard of the bed.

He could feel light tremors running through his body and his breathing was quick and unsteady. The scent of Cleaning Fluids which clung to every surface of the room seemed to grow stronger by the second, cloying and all-consuming until Harry could hardly breathe.

He pressed his nails into his arms to centre himself, leaving little crescent marks behind, and focused on the anger which burned beneath his panic. Snape had no right to drag him here, to stare at him with prying eyes and demand he spill his secrets. Anger was an easier emotion than fear - he could control anger - and Harry could feel his breathing steadying as a furious rage built within him.

He was so sick of adults telling him what to do and demanding he listened as though their superior age granted them unquestionable wisdom. Fudge had done just that when he'd returned Harry to the Dursleys that summer, writing off Harry's complaints that they'd kill him as the petulant whining of a spoilt teenager. And then Fudge had left with a bumbling smile, as though the whole situation was nothing more than an amusing family anecdote to be told for years to come.

The door had hardly even closed before Vernon had knocked Harry to the ground and started beating the crap out of him.

And now Snape, who'd spent the last two years tormenting him at every turn, wanted to humiliated him further, just because he could. No doubt every Slytherin would know by morning that Harry Potter was too pathetic even to stand up to his muggle relatives. He could almost see Malfoy's lips curling in disdain at his weakness.

The tremors had returned, though Harry no longer knew if they were from anger or fear. He closed his eyes, running a shaking hand through his messy hair. He felt like a caged animal, every muscle in his body yearning for him to run, Snape's threats be damned, back to the safety of the Gryffindor common room.

His thoughts were interrupted by the gentle creaking of a door opening. Green eyes snapped open, catching sight of Madam Pomfey bustling out of her office towards him. Snape followed behind her, a look of consternation on his face, and stopped in front of Harry's bed, arms folded across his chest.

"Ah Mr Potter, thank you for waiting so patiently. Professor Snape informed me that you collapsed last week, and asked me to perform a full check-up to investigate any possible causes."

Harry said nothing. Instead he sat there, waiting for Snape to leave. The man had no business staying, not that he'd had any business dragging him to Pomfrey's clutches in the first place. He looked irritated too, his expression one Harry recognised from years of detention with the man.

"Why's he here?" Harry asked sullenly, not caring enough to be polite.

Snape glared at him but didn't move, staying fixed in his position at the foot of the bed, his body blocking Harry's view of the exit.

"I asked Professor Snape to assist with your examination," Madam Pomfrey replied simply, paying no heed to Harry's hostile tone. She smiled at him gently, withdrawing her wand from her apron and drawing the curtain around his bed, shielding the three of them from view. A second silent charm swapped Harry's clothing for a standard hospital gown. "Now Mr Potter, I'm going to start by measuring your height, weight and current magical usage."

A piece of parchment and a quill appeared in the air beside her, and the quill soon began to scribble away as Madam Pomfrey waved her wand several times in quick succession.

Harry noticed Snape shift slightly, the scowl on his face growing considerably as he read Pomfrey's notes.

"Alright, Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey said, frowning slightly, "I'd like you to lie down on the bed and I'll do a scan of your bones and any current injuries."

Harry lay back reluctantly, closing his eyes as he did so.

He felt a slight tingling coursing through his body. Once the feeling had faded, he opened his eyes, squinting slightly as they adjusted to the harsh fluorescent lights of the Hospital Wing. Pomfrey were reading the parchment carefully with pursed lips. When she caught sight of his gaze, she turned away from the parchment and back to him.

"You have a fractured femur," she informed him, "It's not healing properly since it was never set, and there appears to be damage to the blood vessels which is further slowing down the healing process."

Harry didn't bother to respond. He stared at the wall ahead, determinedly not making eye contact with the Matron.

"How did you injure your leg?" She asked softly after a momentary pause.

Harry flinched slightly at the question and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. Swallowing quickly to rid himself of the metallic aftertaste of blood, he asked hurriedly, "Why does it matter?"

"In order to properly reset the bone, it is important that I'm aware of the nature of the injury," she responded calmly.

Harry shrugged, not offering up any more information. He stared mutely at the wall, wondering if his silent refusal would be enough to make them leave him alone.

Some hope of that.

"Well, Potter?" Snape barked when it became apparent Harry wasn't going to speak.

"I got in fight with my cousin." Harry repeated the lie he'd told a few days ago, not caring that Snape had called him out for his mendacity earlier that day. It was practically true anyway, though it had been less of a fight and more of a vicious, unprovoked assault.

"Potter-," Snape started in a low, dangerous voice.

"Sir," Harry gritted out coolly.

"I warned you earlier today about lying to me. If your word cannot be trusted, there are other ways for the truth to be revealed." Snape reached into his pocket and withdrew a vial filled with a bubbling violet substance. "This is a mild truth serum known as the Probing Potion, which will render you incapable of telling a lie. Do not force my hand."

Harry glowered at him. How dare Snape threatened him, when it was only for Snape that he'd been dragged here in the first place. Enough was enough, Harry decided, and he refused to stay for a minute longer.

Abruptly, Harry jumped down off the bed, wincing as a shock-wave of pain ran through his injured leg. Before he could move, however, Snape shifted slightly, his body now directly in front of Harry and blocking any path towards the exit.

"Sit down, Mr Potter," he hissed.

"No, I'm not doing this."

Snape raised an eyebrow in response, "No one is leaving this room until you've been given a _full_ examination, Potter. Now _sit down_!"

Forcing his breathing to remain even, Harry shook his head once more.

"Mr Potter," Madam Pomfrey said firmly, "I have a duty to all the students of Hogwarts to ensure they are of sound mind and body. I cannot let you leave until I've healed your injuries. Now please lie down on the bed."

Harry looked at the two of them and then at the exit. Snape, who must've been watching his line of sight, clamped one hand down on Harry's shoulder. "Bed. Now," he demanded.

There was no escape. Feeling utterly defeated and inexplicably tired, Harry lay back in the bed, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his head away from his professors.

Madam Pomfrey leant over him, tapped his leg with her wand and muttered "Ferula." Bandages spun up Harry's leg, strapping it tightly to a splint.

"I don't want you moving it in any way until I've tended to it." She explained, casting several more spells as she did so. She looked at him for a moment, and Harry could see a flash of indecision in her eyes before she spoke again, in a calm and gentle manner. "I know you're scared Potter, but it is imperative I know the cause of the injury. Otherwise I'll be forced to seek outside help."

Harry froze, recognising the threat behind her word. An image flashed to the front of his mind of a newspaper reporting on his injury, revealing every excruciating detail to its readers. Lockhart had assured Harry several times that he'd made the front page with just a photo, let alone an expose on his home-life.

His breathing quickened again, as he struggled to get oxygen into his lungs. Black spots danced across his vision. He could feel his nails biting into the soft skin of his palms, slick with cold sweat, and forcibly unclenched his fists.

"Breathe, Potter," he heard Snape say from somewhere far away. Harry tried, but there was a hippogriff sitting atop his chest and it seemed impossible to draw any breath at all. Then he felt a vial being pressed against his lips, and calloused hands massaged against his throat. He flinched back at the touch, his body remembering Vernon's hands around his neck, but the hands stayed put, forcing him to swallow the strange liquid, which tasted of lavender and peppermint and…

"It's a calming draught," Snape explained in a placid tone. Since when did Snape speak placidly? Harry pondered that as he gulped down several deep breaths, feeling his heart rate slow until it no longer seemed to hammer away in his chest. He relaxed back onto the bed, his eyes feeling suddenly heavy and the world faded into black.

* * *

"That was an unmitigated disaster." Severus said once he and Poppy were safely inside her office, their conversation protected by privacy charms.

Poppy nodded absently in response, her attention fixed to the parchment before her. Laid out bare was a decade of mistreatment, a tale told through broken bones and concussions and Potter's absolute terror when questioned.

"How did we miss this?" She whispered. "All those times I've treated him for Quidditch injuries and I never noticed anything amiss."

Severus glanced at his own copy of the scan. When he'd discovered there might be something improper with Potter's home life, he'd envisioned neglect and contusions consistent with being pushed around a bit. He'd never once considered that there would be broken bones, concussions, and a litany of scars and other smaller injuries. At least most of them had healed, though Poppy's scans suggested that the bruises had only faded a couple of days ago. No doubt Potter's accidental magic was to thank for that, if his reaction to anyone finding out was anything to go by, Snape would bet his best cauldron that the boy's terror at him seeing his bruises had prompted a surge of healing magic.

A wave of fury swept through his body as he took in the extent of the abuse Potter had suffered. Lily had given her life for the boy, and no one had even cared to check he was safe. They had all failed her. Worse still, they had failed her son.

When Lily had died, he'd visited her grave with a bouquet – of marigolds and asphodels and poppies – in hand and an apology on his lips. But in end he'd set it alight and left a single dried white rose and a whispered promise that he'd do everything in his power to ensure her son survived. Mere weeks ago, when word of Black's escape reached him, Severus had returned to the graveyard and re-sworn his vow to protect her child from harm.

He had failed.

Wiping all thoughts of Lily from his mind, he refocused his attention on the sheets of parchment before him. There was no time to wallow in grief; right now, there was a child in need of treatment.

"What immediate treatment does he need?" Snape asked, his voice devoid of all emotion.

"He had a couple of broken ribs which are largely healed, but would benefit from the Wiggenweld Potion. There are lacerations on his back which will need to be treated with Scaradite for at least a couple of weeks. He'll need to take nutrients potions with every meal, and perhaps an appetite stimulant as well, until he's gained at least two stone. I'd also like to have his eyes properly checked – the prescription for his glasses is clearly inadequate and his magic has begun to compensate for this. And then there's his leg," she broke off, looking back down at the parchment, sorrow evident on her face.

Severus motion for her to continue, and after a moment she did so. "His femur is snapped in two places. Neither of the breaks are clean, and one of them has splintered in such a way as to cause damage to his blood vessels. Frankly, I can't see any option but to vanish the bone entirely and dose the boy with Skele-Gro. The rest of the damage to his body can be cleared up with a standard Healing Potion."

"And the emotional damage?" Severus asked.

Poppy looked as lost as Severus had ever seen her. "I don't know, Severus." She put her head in her hands for a moment, weariness clinging to her body and sorrow in her eyes. "I don't know."

They sat in silence, each reflecting on the grim tales the parchment told. Waiting for the small orb on Poppy's desk to light up, telling them that Potter had woken from his potions induced stupor.

"Do you think you'll be able to get him to answer any of your questions?" Severus broke the silence.

"I didn't realise his reaction would be quite so severe. It's better to let his injuries heal first, and then try to get the truth out of him. If it comes to it, we may need to consider giving him a mild truth serum, although I'd rather it didn't come to that."

Severus nodded in agreement, his eyes fixed on the orb. "I'll need another copy of the scan to give to Albus." Not only as the Headmaster but as Potter's Magical Guardian; the only person who could change Potter's guardians without alerting the Ministry.

They lapsed back into silence. Each consumed by their own guilt for the boy sleeping in the main ward. Here, in the safety of the office, they could grapple with their emotions, for the moment the boy awoke nothing beyond strict professionalism would be acceptable.

* * *

The first thing Harry's half-conscious mind registered was the strange smell. Lemon and antiseptic and bleach stung his nostrils. Blearily, he opened his eyes to white walls and harsh fluorescent lights and a dull blue curtain which blocked out the rest of the room.

He blinked rapidly in confusion, trying to work out where he was. Suddenly, it all came rushing back to him. Snape dragging him here, Pomfrey threatening him, a vial pressed against his lips as his lungs struggled to pull in any air.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Harry pressed his nails desperately into his palm, hoping beyond all belief that this was a nightmare. Maybe he'd wake up back in the Gryffindor dorms. At this point, he'd even take waking up back at Privet Drive over facing another inquisition from Pomfrey.

A chill spread through Harry from his spine to the tips of his fingers and toes.

They knew.

Harry had known that as soon as he saw the look in Snape's eyes, disgust mingled with pity as he saw how weak his nemesis' son really was. No doubt the whole world would know by the end of the evening. He didn't have any time to panic though, for the Matron's precise footsteps echoed against the stone floor as she made her way over to his bed.

Snapping his eyes shut, Harry rolled over onto his side, intending to feign sleep until she left him alone.

"Good afternoon, Mr Potter," Pomfrey said in a level tone, nixing Harry's plan. He cracked one eye open, unsurprised to find he could see little more than a fuzzy outline of the mediwitch. While he fumbled for his glasses and pushed them quickly onto his face, Pomfrey busied herself in modifying the splint around his leg, until it resembled a muggle cast. When she was satisfied with the result, she tapped it once and it vanished from view, only the weight on his leg reminding him of its presence.

Pomfrey must have registered his confusion, but she paid no heed to it, casting several more charms without a word.

Harry opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing, but his half-formed question was abandoned as the dour Potion's Master strode briskly back into the room. His face looked as though it was carved from stone, and not a hint of emotion shone through his dark eyes.

"Drink this." He demanded when he reached Harry's bedside, passing him a vial filled with a thick sludgy blue liquid. Harry sniffed it and almost gagged.

"What is it?" He asked, holding the vial as though it might explode at any moment.

"I'm not surprised you don't recognise it. The appalling essay you handed into me at the beginning of this term made it quite clear how little research you'd done." Snape said contemptuously. Then, in a slightly more level tone, he continued, "It's the Wiggenweld Potion. I trust you remember its uses."

With a glare, Harry downed the potion in one. It tasted like damp hay and the way floo powder smelled. Without a word, Snape pushed a glass of water towards him and motioned for him to take a sip.

"And this one," Snape demanded once Harry had gulped down his water. This potion was a deep green and oozed down his throat, leaving a foul taste behind. A frothy pink potion followed, and then a yellow one which tasted like toothpaste and made the dull ache of his leg, already reduced from a raging inferno, vanish entirely.

"This is a Nutrients Potion," Snape explained, handing Harry a vial filled with a colourless liquid which smelt vaguely of fennel but had a surprisingly bitter aftertaste. "You'll need to take it with every meal for the foreseeable future, along with this one," he gestured to another of the potions lined up on the bedside table though he didn't elaborate further on what exactly the concoction was.

Once Harry had downed several more potions, Snape banished the empty vials with a flick of his wand and withdrew an ampule filled with another putrid mixture that Harry couldn't recognise in the slightest. He wondered for a moment if Hermione would know, before shutting that thought down as a wave of nausea swept through his body.

His friends couldn't find out about this. An image flashed through his mind of Hermione questioning him about the bruises on his arms and he remembered the look of horror in her eyes. Hermione would overreact and Ron would realise what a weak, pathetic coward he was and both would pity him as once they knew that he'd fought a basilisk and a Voldemort-possessed Quirrel but couldn't protect himself from Uncle Vernon.

Harry struggled to banish the thought from his mind, clenching his fists against his side. When he looked up, he caught sight of Snape's black eyes fixed on him, as though he was a potions ingredient and Snape was trying to decide whether to dice him up or just chuck him into the cauldron whole.

After a moment, Snape broke the silence, placing the half-filled ampule on Harry's bedside table. "This is a pain reliever that you can take up to three times a day. It must be consumed within two minutes of you breaking the seal or it won't be effective and could induce a range of nasty side-effects."

Harry nodded in understanding. Now that his job was done, Snape stepped back away from the bed, though he didn't leave, instead choosing to hover by the foot of the bed while Madam Pomfrey – who'd gone to check on McLaggen – bustled over again.

She launched into an explanation of Harry's injures and their treatment, her voice quiet even though the closed curtain activated silencing charms so powerful that Harry could have screamed at the top of his lungs and McLaggen, who was resting on the other side of the Hospital Wing, wouldn't have heard a thing.

Madam Pomfrey paused slightly in her lecture, and Harry hastily refocused, aware that his attention had slipped.

"The damage done to your femur is too substantial for me to fix this evening. I've healed it as best I can and bound it in a splint, but you'll need to come back first thing on Saturday morning so that it can be treated properly."

"But I have Quidditch practise on Saturday," Harry objected.

Madam Pomfrey shook her head gently. "I'm afraid you won't be able to play Quidditch for a few weeks, not until your injuries had fully healed and you've put on enough weight that we can be sure there's no risk for you of collapsing in the air."

"You're banning me from Quidditch! You can't do that. We have our first match of the season in a few weeks." Harry voice rose as he spoke, until he was almost shouting. Colour flooded to his cheeks and his breathing felt laboured.

"Watch you tone, Potter," Snape snarled, startling Harry who, in the heat of the moment, had almost forgotten the silent man's presence.

"Your first match isn't until November, that's still five and a half weeks away." Madam Pomfrey reminded him in a calm voice, utterly unaffected by his outburst. "If you take your potions and eat properly at every meal, you ought to be back on a broom by then."

"But-" Harry tried to argue further but he was silence by a stern gaze.

"Mr Potter, I understand your concern but it is my duty to keep you safe and healthy, and I will not be swayed by your petulant complaints. You are off Quidditch until such a time as I deem you able to play. I have granted you some leeway with your behaviour given the stressful nature of your visit today, but I won't hesitate to give you a detention if you continue to be disrespectful."

Harry looked down at the ground, conflicted with shame and a raw desperation to argue more. He needed to play Quidditch. Being on a broom was about the only thing that made him feel normal at the moment. But Madam Pomfrey's expression was stern and her tone final and Harry knew he would gain nothing from arguing further.

"M'sorry," he mumbled, his eyes still fixed on the starched white bedsheets.

"I understand this is difficult for you, Mr Potter." She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking to the far window. "It's getting late. Why don't you head back to your dorm and we can continue this conversation on Saturday."

Harry nodded quickly, pushing himself up off the bed before she could change her mind. As his feet hit the floor, he braced himself for the familiar jolt of pain to run through his leg but, to his immense surprise, none came.

"Potter," Snape's nasal voice interrupted his thoughts. With a crooked finger, he indicated that the boy should come over to him. Harry went reluctantly, a dozen humiliating ideas of what Snape might say running through his mind.

The man did not speak at first, instead handing Harry a box filled with a dozen or so vials, filled with the colourless liquid that Harry recognised as the Nutrients Potion he'd been given earlier and the pale yellow potion that Harry couldn't name nor give the use of. "I've given you enough to last until Saturday, at which point Madam Pomfrey can replenish your stock."

Snape paused again, his gaze flickering to the window where the moon shone in the darkness of night sky. "Don't forget, you have detention tomorrow immediately after your evening meal. We will discuss the results of your examination, as well as your appalling conduct in my office today, then. Do not be late."

Harry recognised his dismissal, but he hesitated and remained rooted to the spot. Snape, as though sensing his dilemma, raised an eyebrow at him in question, though he did not interrupt.

"You won't … you won't tell anyone about this will you?" Harry burst out nervously, his cheeks burning.

"I assure you Mr Potter, the results of such examinations are strictly confidential."

Harry nodded jerkily, avoiding Snape's gaze entirely.

"Potter," Snape started, and then clearly thought better of it for he continued in his normal, harsher tone, "The potions I've given you are to be taken with every meal. I shall be most displeased if I discover you have not followed Madam Pomfrey's instructions."

"Yes, sir." Harry said. The Potion Master's harsh nasal tone sounded so normal, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred that afternoon. He'd stopped using that awful level tone from Harry's examination, the one that positively dripped with pity at every syllable.

Harry would rather face Snape's icy disdain than have his pity for even a second. At least his snarky manner was normal. And normal was all Harry wanted right now, so that he could forget the terrible events of that afternoon and the shame that came from his darkest secrets being shared with his hated professor.

As quickly as possible, Harry traced the familiar route back to his dorm, desperate to get as far as he could from the prying, pitying eyes of his professors.

* * *

Back in the Hospital Wing, Severus sighed to himself, his eyes still staring at the door through which Potter had fled.

"How did this happen?" Poppy asked desperately. "How did we not notice?"

"I don't know," Snape said quietly. "But I expect I'm about to find out." With a swish of his wand, he duplicated the report of the examination, and strode over to the fireplace in Poppy's office.

"The Headmaster's Office," he intoned, dropping a handful of emerald powder into the hearth.

* * *

A/N - Sorry for the delay on posting this chapter. I suffered complications with an operation I had and ended up back in Hospital. But I'm feeling a lot better now and should be able to start updating more regularly. Thank you so much for all the follows and favourites, and of course, the reviews!


	8. Chapter 8

"Severus, my dear boy, what can I do for you?" Albus asked jovially when Severus emerged from the fireplace, dusting off the front of his robes as he stepped swiftly away from the grate.

Severus didn't respond. Instead, he stood in front of the desk and silently passed over notes from Potter's examination. Albus' gnarled hands gripped the parchment, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"These are the results from Potter's most recent physical examination." Severus explained, answering his unspoken question. "I thought it pertinent that this matter be brought straight to you."

At once, Albus' face shifted from bemused to worried. Without another word he turned the full force of his attention onto the parchment in his hands. It was only when he'd read through each sheet several times that he looked up, and only then did Severus see the heavy sorrow in his blue eyes. A single tear trickled down his aged face, and he did not bother to brush it away.

The Headmaster had never looked quite so old as he did in that moment, his entire being seemed to wilt as the weight of his guilt crushed down on him.

"I failed him," he whispered to himself, as though he had forgotten Severus' presence. A gnarled hand reached up as though to swipe at his eyes, but at the last moment he dropped it back down to the desk with a thud. "I swore I would not fail another child but I did."

Suddenly, a terrible rage seemed to overcome him; the sheer force of it causing the air to crackle with magic, like static gathering before a storm.

"Albus," Severus called, desperately trying to get his attention lest he blew the windows out in his fury.

"Severus…" blue eyes searched Severus' face, but whatever they found only made his eyes grow sadder; another tear leaked from his eye, and trickled slowly down his face and into his beard. "I have made so many terrible errors in my life, and each time I have sworn that I will learn from them. Yet I have proven time and time again to be incapable of doing so."

Then the terrible pressure in the air receded as Albus dropped his head into his hands. "I knew, when I left him there, that Petunia might not treat him with the love he deserved. She took him grudgingly, only after I explained that Harry's life was at risk. And I accepted that, because his safety is paramount and in taking him in she sealed the protection that his mother's sacrifice placed around him."

Albus' voice sounded so wearied. He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again Severus couldn't tell whether he was trying to justify his actions to Severus or himself.

"That protection was the strongest shield I could give him and so I overlooked her unwillingness because I knew that one day he would need his mother's protection. But I never dreamt that they might hurt him. That they might raise a hand to their own kin, to a child entrusted in their care. You must believe me, Severus, had I known that Petunia was capable of harming the boy, I'd have found another option."

"You had no reason to suspect anything." Severus said, his anger fading at the sight of Albus' anguish. "Lily loved her sister, and you had no reason to suspect that underneath her bitterness Petunia did not reciprocate."

"I didn't take Arabella's warning seriously enough." Albus continued as though Severus hadn't spoken. "She's always been prone to exaggeration and I just assumed that her worries merely reflected Petunia's own grudging acceptance of her nephew."

"Arabella Figg. That's who you placed to watch over the boy. The same woman who sends you photos of her cats dressed in hand-knitted jumpers every Christmas," Severus exclaimed deridingly.

He regretted his outburst immediately, but he could not bring himself to apologise. Not when Lily's son had endured so much because Albus had entrusted a batty old woman to oversee his care.

"She was the only person equipped to blend in." Albus defended, though it would have been obvious to anyone, even Hagrid, that his heart was not in it. "One of Petunia's conditions for taking Harry in was that they'd be left alone by the magical world until it was time for him to come to Hogwarts. I didn't want to give her reason to refuse the boy … though perhaps it would have been better if she had."

That thought caused the last of Albus' composure to slip and his face crumpled. Head in hands, he stared at the pieces of parchment which told the story of a child's suffering and his own mistakes. Tears dripped freely down his face onto the desk and he did nothing to hide them. When at last he looked up, the heavy sorrow in his eyes had only grown, and his voice cracked as he asked the only important question. "Will Harry be okay?"

"Physically, he'll be fine." Here, Severus paused, trying to order his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "He's withdrawn and reticent, and the fact that he's hidden this for over two years without anyone so much as suspecting anything amiss suggests he's a long way from okay."

Silence overcame both men, each consumed by their guilt, aware that their own blindness was to blame. Each knew they had failed Lily Potter, who had given her life for her son's safety and whose son had not been safe.

There was nothing more to be said, not by Severus, he had delivered the news and done his duty. Yet he did not move. He remained rooted before the Headmaster's desk, unable to leave Albus alone to his grief.

Only when Fawkes flew down onto Albus' shoulder, red and gold plumes splayed out in full glory and a sweet melody on his lips, did Albus speak again in a dry, chocked voice so unlike his usual mellifluous tone, "We cannot risk the Ministry finding out about this."

Severus nodded. Even through the haze of his overwhelming grief at the time, he remembered the furore that had surrounded Harry Potter's placement as the country started to recover from the chaos of war.

Every newspaper in the country had dedicated their weekly editions to the question of where the boy should be placed, and it had only been Albus' insistence that a child ought to be raised by his own blood – an argument which no pureblood was foolish enough to repute, not when so many of their own privileges relied on the importance of blood – that had kept Potter safe from the families desperate for the political clout which came from raising _The Boy Who Lived_.

"The only people present for Potter's examination were Poppy and myself. No file has been produced so there will be no paper trail which a scurrilous reporter could find." His voice regained its icy neutrality, devoid of any sentiment. This was easier: cold hard facts which he could rattle off without emotion.

"I'll inform Minerva," said Albus, as much to himself as to Severus. "Thank you. For seeing what the rest of us were too blind to notice."

Severus nodded uncomfortably at the praise, aware that he had only bothered to watch the boy at Albus' insistence. "If that is all, I'll be on my way."

"Severus," Albus called as Severus moved away from the desk and towards the door. There was a note of desperation which Severus hadn't heard since the end of the war. "Watch out for Harry. Just until I find someone suitable to take on the permanent role of his guardian."

"Why in Merlin's name would you want me to look out for the boy? Surely Minerva can do that? Or even Lupin? They actually _like_ the boy."

"They can't protect him as well as you can. If I remove him from Petunia's care, he'll lose his mother's protection. With Black at large, he is at great risk. I need you to keep him safe if the wards should fall." Albus paused for a moment, his hand twitching towards an unusual gold ring on his little finger. "You've been keeping an eye on him for me since he arrived at here, all I ask is that you make sure he's protected, even if that means protecting him from himself. You are the only person I can trust with this task, Severus."

The Headmaster's eyes met his, steady and unyielding, and they bore into him with such an intensity that Severus could not look away.

"Look out for him, Severus," Albus requested again. "Until I've found a solution to the loss of Lily's sacrificial protection."

He so desperately wanted to refuse, to fly into a rage because how dare Albus asked this of him? How could he ask Severus to look after the child of his nemesis, the child of the woman he'd once loved, the child who had been orphaned by his own poor choices?

He could imagine saying no, twisting his lip with scornful disdain as he spat out the word like a curse. And he wanted to, more than he could possibly begin to articulate, but just as the word formed on his tongue, he remembered his promise to Lily.

Unbidden, the memory of him knelt before her tombstone just a few weeks ago entered his mind. There, he'd sworn on his life and his magic to protect her son, and, though that promise was in no way binding on his health, he could feel it binding around his conscience, and he could not refuse.

If he listened hard enough, he could almost hear her begging him to say yes. Pleading for him to protect her son with the soft Yorkshire lilt she'd inherited from her father even though she'd never been there herself.

"I will," he said at last, aware that the silence had dragged on while he'd been lost in his memories. "I'll keep an eye on him. But only until you find someone suitable to care for him."

Then he was gone, his black cloak flowing behind him as he made his way swiftly down the spiral staircase

* * *

Harry wandered aimlessly through the stone corridors, treading carefully to avoid drawing any attention to himself. He hadn't been able to face going back to the common room, not on a night where the foul weather meant the room would be teeming with students from all years.

Outside, lightening flashed across the sky, illuminating the otherwise black night as the winds howled like a banshee. Rain lashed ferociously against the windows, and Harry knew that the common room would be full to burst of people milling around, finishing essays and playing exploding snap in front of the roaring fire.

He couldn't go back there and pretend everything was normal. Especially when Ron and Hermione would no doubt ask why Snape had kept him back after class and where he'd been since and why he had to go back to the Hospital Wing that weekend leading to more uncomfortable questions which he had no interest in answering right now. Or ever.

Sighing, Harry ran his fingers through his messy hair. The furious anger he'd felt during his examination had evaporated as the reality of the situation set in, leaving him bone tired and desperate for the day to end. He was desperate for somewhere quiet, where he wouldn't have to talk to anyone or think about anything, and that meant he couldn't return to the common room until his friends were in bed and he could slip into the dorms unnoticed.

So he kept walking, down through the dungeon towards the cloisters, a place which few students knew of and even fewer ventured to.

As he walked, he replayed the scene in the hospital wing over and over in his head. Madam Pomfrey, unsurprisingly, seemed intent to blow his injuries way out of proportion. Sure, his uncle had knocked him about a bit, but it wasn't like he'd done anything extreme. Not like the boy at Stonewall High, who'd been killed by his father when Harry was eight. His death had been subject to intense gossip at Privet Drive for months after, with everybody chiming up about how awful it was, though many had echoed Petunia's sentiment that it was the sort of thing you'd expect from a family like that.

Uncle Vernon had never done anything like that. Sure, he may have lost control a few times over the summer, but Harry had provoked him by blowing up Aunt Marge and running off afterwards. Worse still, Vernon then had to endure the indignity of a wizard dragging his nephew back in plain sight of all the neighbours. It was hardly surprising that he'd lost his temper.

Besides, he hadn't seriously hurt Harry, hadn't sent him to hospital or anything – a quiet voice in his head that sounded oddly like Hermione pointed out that just because he hadn't gotten medical attention didn't mean he hadn't needed to.

Shaking his head wearily, Harry leant against the wall for a moment. The stones were rough and uneven and Harry pressed his fingers against them, glad to feel something real and solid as the wave of fear and uncertainties threatened to overwhelm him.

Then he pushed on, one foot in front of the other, his footsteps echoing off the rocks in the otherwise deserted passageway.

At last, he reached the cloisters, an odd little place at the back of the dungeons that had fallen into disrepair over the centuries. What once might have been a vast courtyard was now an area crowded with dozens of columns, some having fallen to the ground over the centuries and littering the floor with small shards of marble.

The charm overhead gave off the impression of natural light radiating in, though it too was wearing off and, if Harry looked closely enough, he could see the real ceiling, high above his head and decorated by patterns carved into the smooth marble.

It was a beautiful room, even in its derelict state, and one of the few places in Hogwarts where he could really be alone. Harry had only discovered its existence during his second year, when the whispers of the other students had gotten too much to bear, and he'd desperately needed somewhere quiet where he could escape it all. Fred and George had led him down there, cheerfully suggesting he could use it as an evil lair, and Harry had escaped there several times before the Professor's monitoring made it impossible to slip off.

Once Harry had climbed carefully through the gap in the wall that served as an entrance, he clambered over the fallen columns and towards his favourite spot in the corner of the room.

He dropped down, his back pressed against the cool marble, and hugged his robes tighter around him to ward off the chill. Whatever heating charms had been applied to the corridors of the castle didn't extend to the cloisters.

He suppressed another shiver, almost glad for the frigid air which offered him a welcome distraction from his thoughts. Finally able to relax, he sat unmoving for several long minutes.

Just as he was about to close his eyes, he heard a strange rustle coming from the far corner. Twisting his head around, his gaze was drawn to a sliver of light emitting from behind an intricate pillar in the furthest corner of the room.

Quietly, so as not to announce his presence, he crept towards the light. Keeping himself hidden behind a fallen column, he peered over, eyes scanning for the any movement. He wondered if it was Peeves, come to torment him, or perhaps the Bloody Baron.

Then he heard the rustle of a page being turned. Curious as to who on earth would to come to the depths of the dungeon on a bitingly cold night like this, Harry moved closer still, until at last he could see the other person clearly.

He bit back a gasp of surprise.

There, sitting cross-legged with his back pressed against a pillar, was Neville, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared intently at the book in his lap. His tongue was sticking out slightly as he read, and every so often he'd pause and mouth the sentence he was reading, as though trying to commit it to memory.

Harry felt like he was intruding on some private scene; Neville clearly didn't want anyone to know what he was doing if he'd come to the depths of the castle to work rather than going to the library or the common room or even an empty classroom.

He made to move away, intending to return to his spot in the far corner without informing Neville of his presence. But he must have made some noise for Neville's head snapped up.

His eyes met Harry's.

"I came down here for some quiet," Harry explained uncomfortably. "I didn't realise there'd be anyone else down here."

"S'fine," Neville's cheeks were pink and he moved to hide his textbook from sight.

Harry thought about turning to leave; Neville clearly didn't want him there. But the rims of his eyes were red, and Harry felt compelled to make sure he was okay.

"How come you're down here?" Harry asked, dropping down beside him.

"I-I needed somewhere peaceful to work. The common room's, well you know, it's a bit much when you're trying to focus and I tried to work in the library but you can't practise spells there. Not that practising seems to be doing me much good." He was clearly trying for self-deprecating humour, but there was a hint of bitterness in his soft tone. He looked away.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked uncomfortably. "Is this why you haven't been in the common room recently? Because you're practising spells?"

Neville nodded dejectedly.

"Everyone thinks I'm useless," he said miserably, lower lip trembling slightly. "Last week when you blew up your cauldron, everyone was so surprised it wasn't me. S-S-Seamus even congratulated me on not being the one to screw up for a change … I'm just so sick of always being the laughing stock."

He sighed despondently, exhaling a puff of white steam into the icy air. "I'm always the screw up. Even my Gran thinks so. She's always going on about how I need to live up to my Dad's legacy. How disappointed he'd be if he could see me now. I even heard Great Uncle Algie say once, back when he thought I was a squib, that maybe it was for the best that my Dad's in St. Mungo's so he doesn't have to see-," Neville cut off suddenly.

He clamped a hand over his mouth in horror as the the tips of his ears turned a brilliant red. It occurred to Harry then that he had never asked Neville why he was raised by his Gran. In the three years they had a shared a dorm, the topic had never once come up. And from the look on Neville's face now, it was clear that that was no accident.

Harry ruthlessly suppressed his curiosity as it was clear Neville didn't want to be pressed. Now, more than ever, Harry could respect that. He knew what it was like to have certain questions he didn't want to answer. Instead, Harry ignored his comments on his Dad and focused on the previous part of the conversation.

"You're not useless!" He said fiercely, "And if anyone says that, then they're just being lousy gits and you shouldn't pay them any notice. Most people who put other people down only do it to cover their own insecurities."

Neville looked away from Harry, eyes fixed to his shoes.

As he spoke, he fiddled mindlessly with his poorly-tied shoelaces. "It's true though. I'm always the one to get a spell last or blow up a cauldron or have some charm backfire in a humiliating way. It doesn't matter what I try, I can never seem to get anything right."

Embarrassed by his own admission, Neville fell silent.

"I can help," Harry offered, before he even realised what he was saying. "I'm not Hermione, I'm not really that good at any of it, but I could practise with you. It might be easier if there's two of us."

"I don't want to waste your time," Neville said in a small voice. But he'd perked up slightly at Harry's offer, looking up from the ground for the first time since Harry sat down.

"It's not a waste of my time." Harry reassured him. He meant it, too. He wanted to help Neville, the boy with whom he felt a strange kinship with in that moment. The comments made by Neville's relatives reminded him all too well of Aunt Petunia's jibes. 'We can meet down here in the evenings after my detentions. That'll give us a good hour before curfew.'

"That would be really helpful … if you're sure you don't mind?" Neville looked hesitantly at Harry. He stared him straight in the eye, as though searching for a hint of irritation or pity, and Harry stared back unwaveringly. He knew, after all, what it felt like to feel like a burden.

Neville's smile grew slightly.

Then a thought struck. Neville abruptly pulled his sleeve up, his gaze drawn to the worn gold watch on his left wrist. He swore audibly when he saw the time.

It was only a few minutes till curfew.

"We'd better head back to the common room," he said.

Harry heaved himself to his feet, relishing in the lack of pain, and then offered a hand to Neville. He felt more peaceful than he had earlier, his focus on cheering Neville up successfully driving the humiliation of his medical examination from his mind.

Together, the two boys made their way slowly out of the cloisters and down the silent stone halls of the dungeon.

* * *

Severus sat stiffly at his desk, his attention a thousand miles away from the pile of homework on his desk that needed marking. His mind was still reeling from the shock of Potter's examination.

He knew he'd been sharp with the boy in the Hospital Wing; he had chastised him for his conduct and threatened him with truth serum and detentions when he ought to have been more understanding. With a shudder, he imagined how he would have responded at that age if he'd had all his most embarrassing secrets revealed to his hated professor – there would certainly have been far more foul language and belligerence than Potter had shown.

He ought to have been more understanding. But it was difficult. It was easier to goad Potter and scowl at the defiant spark in his eyes than to see his tense muscles and trembling hands. Easier to focus on his arrogance and cheek than to notice how he flinched whenever a hand moved too quickly near him. Easier to see all the ways in which Potter was like his father, pampered and spoilt rotten, than to know the truth.

Sighing deeply, Snape pushed his marking into a neat pile and placed it in the top draw of his desk. Then, he stood up and moved through the hidden door behind him through to his own quarters.

As he readied himself for bed, grateful not to be on duty patrolling the corridors for miscreants that particular evening, his mind drifted back to Albus' request.

In truth, he was not surprised that Albus had asked him to look out for the boy. Not only because Severus had been a spy for years, and was well used to noticing minor details and slips in speech that would help unravel Potter's experience. Albus trusted him to do that, but more than that, Albus was trying to give him the chance to make amends.

Severus had sworn to Lily that he would protect her son, that he would do everything in his power to do right by the boy, and now Albus was giving him a chance to live up to his vow.

Albus was giving him a chance to be absolved of his sins, just as he had when he'd asked Severus to teach at Hogwarts, all those years ago.

It was at Hogwarts that Severus had made his greatest mistake and it was at Hogwarts that he would atone. At Albus' behest he kept a close eye on his Slytherins, carefully noting which ones hissed at the muggle-borns and sneered at the half-bloods and seemed confused that Halloween was celebrated here rather than being treated with the mournful respect they were used to.

It was his task to try to guide those children away from the mistakes he had made, to keep Albus informed on who could be helped and for whom the rhetoric of hatred was too deeply entrenched. And he did it as well as he could, even if he had to be careful to keep his true loyalties concealed.

It was often difficult. Hogwarts was the site of his worst memories and deepest regrets, and sometimes, when bitterness and guilt overcame him, he could be cruel and sharp with the students.

Some reminded him of his tormentors and he got immense satisfaction from taking points and handing out detentions, and wiping the smug look of their arrogant faces. But others reminded him of himself and that was so much worse.

He had had to watch students make mistakes they could not take back, sending themselves down a terrible path on which he was powerless to help them on.

He wasn't powerless to help Potter though. No, he knew all too well what the boy was going through.

Rage burned like a fiery inferno within him at the thought of what Petunia's spite had done to the boy. But he choked it down. The boy did not need his pity. He got far too much of that from strangers in the streets. Besides, the boy would not want it. Nor would he want Severus' help, that much had been clear in his examination today. His refusal to speak about the cause of injuries had spoken volumes.

It also posed a difficult problem: no one, except Potter and his relatives, truly knew the extent of the abuse Potter had faced, Currently, all Severus had to go on was a list of recent injuries; he needed more information. He wouldn't be able to help Potter otherwise.

He needed to get Potter to speak - even if he had to force him. Tomorrow, in Potter's detention, he'd find a way to get Potter talking. Plan's half-forming in his mind, Severus drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

Harry and Neville made their way quickly through the dungeons, their footsteps clattering loudly against the floor of the otherwise silent corridor.

It was difficult enough to navigate through the dungeons in daylight, let alone try to find a path through the maze of small passageways and unexpected endings in the dim light of the flickering torches that hung from the walls.

They walked in silence for the most part, only speaking to express frustration when they came across another dead-end and were forced to backtrack. They both knew that the longer they stayed in the dungeon, the more chance they had of getting caught by a pair of patrolling prefects.

Finally, they arrived at a small passage way which Harry recognised from his and Ron's adventure last year.

They were only a couple of corridors away from the Slytherin common room.

Harry told Neville as much in a low whisper, guiltily ignoring the look of fear in Neville's eyes. Giving the turning toward the common room a wide berth, Harry tried to lead him towards the main hallway, which would take them safely back to Gryffindor tower.

He was so focused on finding his way, that he didn't notice anything amiss until he felt Neville frantically prodding his shoulder. He stopped, about to ask Neville what was wrong, when he heard the distant sound of footsteps clattering against the craggy stone floors.

At once alert, he listened intently, becoming aware after a few seconds that the footsteps were making their way towards him. Surveying his surroundings, Harry caught sight of several suits of armour which decorated the walls further up the corridor. Carefully, to avoid alerting the footsteps to his presence – it was past curfew now, and the last thing he needed was a confrontation with Filch, or worse, Snape – Harry ducked behind the suits of armour, hoping that the dim light in the passageway wouldn't give him away. He pulled Neville into his hiding spot, wishing, not for the first time, that he'd brought his invisibility cloak with him rather than leaving it stuffed into his trunk.

The footsteps came closer still until they were only a passage away, and the echoes of a conversation reached his ears. It wasn't until he heard an obnoxious laugh bouncing off the stone walls that he realised exactly who the footsteps belonged to.

Malfoy.

Harry pressed himself against the wall, desperate not to be seen, as Malfoy rounded the corner, accompanied by another slightly smaller figure whose identity Harry could not ascertain. They were speaking loudly, despite the silence of Hogwarts after curfew, and Harry was able to hear every word of their conversation.

"-detention till Sunday," Malfoy complained. "That's four more evenings with the squib forcing me to polish trophies like I'm a bloody house-elf. Just wait until my father hears about this-,"

"-I hardly think your father will be terribly sympathetic when he finds out Professor Snape gave you those detentions for demonstrating a severe lack of decorum and bringing our house into disrepute." The second voice countered, his tone slightly mocking. Harry couldn't quite place the second voice, though he was sure he'd heard it before.

"Potter attacked me! I was only defending myself, but of course, precious Potter plays the victim and I get saddled with a fortnight with Filch."

"Potter didn't get away scot-free. I heard that Professor Snape gave him detention every night for a month," the second voice said gleefully. "Blaise heard Potter complaining about it to Weasley."

Malfoy laughed maliciously. "Serves him right. Potter thinks he's so great, just because he didn't die like his mudblood mother did. At least the lousy prat's going to get what's coming to him when Black catches up with him. Imagine, having you own godfather out for your blood. I suppose that's what happens when a pureblood like his father goes making friends with the wrong sort and consorting with mudbloods."

His companion's response was lost to Harry, for the two boys had turned down the small passageway Harry and Neville had just emerged from, and were headed towards the Slytherin common room.

Even when the two boys were long gone, Harry stayed pressed against the wall, his mind reeling at the new information. A thousand questions lay in wait on the tip of his tongue.

He knew all about the crimes of Sirius Black. Fudge had warned him when he'd taken Harry back to his relatives after he'd tried to leave. Then, the last night in the Leaky Cauldron – the Minister had arranged for Mr Weasley to collect Harry the day before he was due back at Hogwarts, so that he could do his shopping in the company of a fully-qualified wizard - he'd overheard Mr and Mrs Weasley talking about how Black was specifically after him.

But they had made it clear that Black wanted to avenge his vanquished master. That Black was after him for revenge. Not that Black had any personal connection to him, any reason to target him. If what Malfoy said was true…

_Could it be true? Malfoy had no reason to lie, not to his friend. Besides, the other boy hadn't been surprised in the slightest. __But it didn't make any sense. How could it be that an escaped murderer, a man who had fought for Voldemort, could be his godfather? __His dad must have been close friends with Black to name him his guardian. Did that mean Dad was sympathetic to followers of Voldemort? He couldn't be, he'd married Harry's mum. And he'd fought against Voldemort. But then why had he made Black his son's godfather? Was it definitely true? _Harry's thought whirled in circles around his head.

Malfoy's inadvertent revelation was the final straw; the horrors of the day finally threatening to overwhelm Harry. It felt like a hippogriff was stamping on him, leaving him with a terribly tight feeling in his chest.

"Let's get back," he muttered to Neville.

They made their way through three corridors, down a hallway, and up several flights of stairs in complete silence as Harry tried desperately to stay in control of his emotions.

It was only after he had collapsed onto his bed – having sworn Neville to secrecy on the overheard conversation – that he allowed himself to crumble. Pressing his face against his pillow, he sobbed silently. The tightness in his chest eased slightly as he did, though it came back with vengeance when he thought about the coming day.

His only comfort was that it couldn't get any worse.


End file.
